


Project Titan

by The_Jashinist



Series: The Earth-Psi Arkham Series [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arkham Asylum Rewrite, Blood and Gore, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Original Character(s), Personal Fanverse, Psychological Horror, Rogues doing hero things, who lets me write this shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Jashinist/pseuds/The_Jashinist
Summary: The Arkham Asylum Incident wasn't an isolated part of the multiverse, but it went a little differently each time.  One Earth, in particular, has a bit of a story to tell in this respect.





	1. A Slow Night

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't feel like pretending this was original we all know this is an Arkham Asylum rewrite. Enjoy it, it's probably the closest I'll get to a fic that properly establishes the status quo of Earth-Psi.

It was a quiet Friday night, too quiet. Something was bound to go wrong any minute. Batman partly wanted it to just happen already, just so he had an excuse to stop playing chess with Nygma and do something more productive with his night. Nygma had won the first two games, and was on his way to winning the third, but that was only because Batman didn’t really have the patience for chess. Also, there were no bombs attached to the chess board. Bombs were always a good motivator.

“Did you ever get around to searching Arkham for that riddle list I gave you?” Nygma interrupted partway through the third game.

“Nope,” Batman replied, swinging one leg off of the gargoyle he was perched on and rolling out his shoulders. He was starting to get stiff up here.

“And I was all ready to hear what you had to say about them,” Nygma said in a voice that sounded a bit like he was pouting.

“Does it look like I have the resources to sneak around a mental health facility with more security than Belle Reve?” There was a stretch of silence, and Batman quickly added, “Don’t answer that.”

“I don’t think you want the answer to that,” Nygma replied.

The police scanner flared to life, and Batman switched off Nygma to hear it better.

“We’ve got a 10-35 in the Financial District, suspect is a 10-96, over.”

Batman let out an audible sigh and stood from his perch. At least he was close.

“Where exactly is the 10-35?”

“Gotham City Hall.”

There was a loud bang from down the block, and Batman used a line to swing across three apartment buildings before landing on a fourth. Just next door was city hall. Convenient, if a bit of a security hazard.

“Do we have an identity on the 10-96?”

“Affirmative, 10-96 is the Joker, over.”

Batman jumped down onto a windowsill and kicked the window open before sliding in. This room was dark, but Batman could hear laughter. He was close.

Batman leaned on a door as it swung open and peered around it, making sure none of Joker’s thugs were there. When the coast seemed clear enough, he swung around the door and started down the hall. He didn’t really have the time to sneak around, and besides, the hallways were barren this time. This was completely unlike Joker. Joker’s schemes were always so... _elaborate_. He hired at least fifty underpaid thugs per job; it was a headache just to get to him.

Today, there were no thugs, no crazy distractions, not even a single morbid decoration. Batman clicked his teeth and leaned on the doors to the mayor’s office, where the laughter was loudest.

And on repeat: a recording, childish, too easy. Joker was smarter than this. Where were the traps? The set-pieces? The mocking note at the end of the recording that made it really obvious Joker had spent seven minutes just laughing into a microphone just to trick him?

Batman kicked the door open and strode in. The recording was strapped to the mayor’s chest, and of course he was terrified, all wide-eyed and squirming. He’d probably be squirming more if he didn’t have a luger against his temple and a deranged clown’s leg dangling over his shoulder in what could not be a comfortable sitting position for the Joker. Mayor Hamilton Hill was not a particularly hard-to-spook man, and Joker was almost the scariest Arkham inmate Batman dealt with on the regular. Almost; he wasn’t a six-foot-three disgraced psychology professor who could mimic voices, and he certainly wasn’t a six-foot-seven minimum drug cartel whose idea of restraint was breaking ribs.

“Batsy-boy! So glad you could make it!” Joker beamed proudly from his seat on the desk and leaned back, moving the luger so it was at the back of Hill’s head. “I’m sure our friend here’s been just dying to know when you’d get here.”

Joker pointed the luger at one wall and fired, sending a 12mm lead bullet straight through a portrait of Mayor Hill. Joker didn’t need to look at it to be accurate; sure enough, the shot struck right between the portrait’s eyes. Sometimes Batman forgot that seven years ago, Joker was a distinguished sniper in the Marine Corps. Then he made a shot like that, and that knowledge came back very quickly.

“Oops.” Joker grinned wider. Batman suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and stepped fully into the room. Joker quickly switched the luger back to its place behind the mayor’s head and raised his eyebrows.

“Let him go.” Batman kept his voice firm. Better he didn’t show fear or hesitation when a psychotic clown was involved. Of course, he could tell; he still had that stupid painted grin on his face. Like a child had gotten into a suitcase of costume make-up.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Joker asked. “But I suppose you’re right, Mr. Hill’s a little superfluous, isn’t he?” Joker grinned wide and kicked the chair forwards, sending Hill tumbling flat on his face.

Joker hopped down off the desk and held the luger at his own temple, “I like this hostage a lot more. No complaining, you don’t have to tie him up, and he’s perfectly happy whether he has a bullet in his skull or not! Isn’t it perfect?” Joker let out an obnoxious laugh, it sounded a bit like a screeching monkey. The laughter slowly died down and, still smiling, he mumbled. “I need sleep.”

“I think you need a bit more than sleep,” Batman carefully stepped forwards, reaching for the luger.

“Oh, without a doubt,” Joker nodded, “but you are absolutely not the one to be telling me that, Batsy.”

Batman kept moving forwards, waiting for Joker to turn the luger towards him. He didn’t he just used it to tilt his head to one side and smiled blankly at Batman. Batman carefully took the gun from Joker’s hand and tossed it aside, holding Joker’s hands firmly in front of him. He wasn’t resisting, not a shred. Even when Joker was really low, he resisted. He screamed, threw a fit, and kicked his way free. Not this time. This time, he stood, smiling, an uncertain laugh echoing in the back of his throat.

“Are you okay?” Batman asked, a little worried Joker was worse than usual.

“Just fine,” Joker replied, “perfectly peachy.”

Batman didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe it until the handcuffs were on and Joker was sitting in the back, curled into a ball and singing to himself.

“Near Banbridge town, in the County Down one evening last July, down a bóithrín green came a sweet cailín, and she smiled as she passed me by...”

Batman knew the song as well as he knew Joker. Joker didn’t sing unless he was very, very happy. Batman recalled hearing him say that he liked the kind of songs you needed to be in a good mood to _really_ sing. Batman wasn’t too clear on what that meant, but he didn’t tend to pry when it came to Joker.

“Is he in the car?” Oracle came online in Batman’s earpiece, her voice soft so Joker didn’t hear.

“Yes,” Batman replied as quietly as possible. “He’s singing.”

“He’s what?” Oracle paused, “How easy was it to bring him in?”

“Too easy.”

“Joker’s not usually happy to go back to Arkham,” Oracle pointed out.

“I know, Oracle,” Batman sighed. “That’s the worry. If he’s in this good of a mood...” Batman risked a look back at Joker, who perked up a bit and waved. “Maybe I should watch him through processing. Just until he’s in his cell.”

“Good call,” Oracle sighed. “Do you want me to put Prophet on everyone else’s lines? You know, just in case something happens.”

“What about me?” a voice interjected, “Are you driving payaso back to Arkham?”

“Yes, Prophet,” Batman sighed. He forgot she was still on his comm link from last night. Prophet was Oracle’s partner, a girl named Audrey Brenner. She was an invaluable addition to what was now a team of five field vigilantes. The downside was that she was a bit more difficult to manage than Oracle, who could already be a handful. Prophet had wanted to be in the field, but Batman didn’t trust it. Prophet had trouble opening some doors; there was no way he could train her to fight.

“He’s singing,” Oracle said. Prophet let out a short laugh.

“ _Son mamadas,_ ” she scoffed. “ _El payaso no canta._ ” Batman rolled his eyes. He figured she would’ve stopped that after Robin told her she sounded like her mother but apparently not.

“Prophet,” Batman warned. “We had a talk about the swearing.”

“ _Sí, sí,_ ” Prophet sighed. “Oracle, switch Robin and Red over to my feed, I’ll keep track of them. Oh, and take me off Batman’s feed.”

“Will do, Prophet,” Oracle confirmed.

“ _Buenas noches, el Murciélago,_ ” Prophet sang, then her comm went silent.

“Do you think she talks like that just to bother you?” Oracle asked.

“What?” Batman slowed as he reached the Westward Bridge. “The Spanish? No, that’s just how she talks.”

“No, the swearing in Spanish,” Oracle corrected. “she doesn’t swear in English around you, but she does swear in English around the others.”

“She might,” Batman confirmed. “In fact, that’s more than likely. Why?”

“No reason,” Oracle replied. “I mean, besides that Kate thinks it’s funny.”

“Of course she does.” Batman sighed as he pulled up to Arkham. Dr. Leland was already at the door, flanked by two guards and looking about as pleased as a bowl of scorpions. She also looked tired, very tired. It had been a slow night for Batman, but clearly it hadn’t been a slow night for Leland. This would probably be the last patient sent through processing before she was off for the night. Most people would be grateful to be out of Arkham, but Leland was probably the only psychiatrist at Arkham that could actually handle the inmates most of Gotham called the “Rogues’ Gallery”. There used to be more, but apparently being able to handle difficult inmates had a sixty percent chance of meaning you were _also_ a difficult inmate.

Batman got out of the car first, eyeing Joker through the window as the guards descended the stairs. Batman passed them and approached Leland. They needed to talk.

Dr. Joan Leland was the type of woman that could keep a man twice her height in line. She wasn’t particularly tall, nor strongly built. In fact, Leland was a petite woman who barely stood over five feet. Her dark hair was cropped short, and her dark brown eyes were always covered by a pair of square-rimmed glasses. She was calm, if a bit stern, both particularly rare traits for psychiatrists at Arkham.

“How’s he doing?” Leland asked.

“He’s happy,” Batman replied. “He was singing in the car.”

Leland rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Of course he was.”

“To be safe, I’d like to follow him through processing,” Batman added.

“I figured,” Leland nodded. “Gordon’s waiting inside.”

Batman nodded. Leland turned to the guards as they brought Joker in, flipping through her clipboard.

“What’s up, doc?” Joker grinned wide as he passed her.

“Hello Jack.” Leland didn’t look up, and her voice stayed level despite Joker’s maniacal grin. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just wonderful doc,” Joker replied. “Is Dr. Young in tonight?”

“She may be,” Leland replied following after him, “I hope you don’t mean to torment the poor girl.”

“Of course not!” Joker stumbled to one side intentionally, but the guard on that side recognized the feint and pulled him back. “I’m just really excited to see what the new antipsychotic cocktail will be! Will it taste good? Will I need to eat with it? I’ll have you know I’ve given up on potatoes for Lent.”

“Of all things,” Leland muttered. “Did he point a gun at himself at any point?”

“Yes,” Batman replied. Leland marked something down on her clipboard and shot an annoyed glance at Joker before looking back to the clipboard.

“Oh, you know I wasn’t gonna do it, Batsy.” Joker flung his head back and grinned. “Wouldn’t want to get clown brains all over the suit.” He swung his head back forward. “The suit actually has some worth. It’d be a shame to ruin it.”

The doors creaked open, and Joker began humming quietly.

“Welcome home, Jack.” Leland finally looked up from her clipboard and Joker let his head fall back so he could smile at her.

“Good to be home, Dr. Leland,” he replied.

Batman almost smiled there, mostly because the Joker's own smile seemed so genuine. That one small moment almost allowed Batman to forget, for a moment, that Joker was most certainly up to something. It was moments like that where Batman had faith in the Joker. People didn’t tend to have faith in the Joker.

The procession continued until they reached a second door. In front of this one stood a man clearly edging into his fifties, rotund, with thinning white hair but a curled mustache that had clearly taken a long time. His hands rested on a hardwood cane that stabbed into the floor, both palms resting so they hid the emerald tip. On either side of him stood two guards. One took a very quick swig from a side flask as they approached. Batman could smell Southern Comfort. The man with the cane sighted Joker, and his lips curled into an expression of disdain, like someone had spit on his clearly expensive pinstripe suit.

“Warden Sharp.” Leland stepped around Joker and his escort quickly. “Did something happen?”

“No, just a routine check,” Sharp replied, tapping his cane twice. “Dr. Young requested it.”

“Of course,” Leland sounded a bit annoyed. “Boles, put the whiskey away. If Crane smells it—”

“Atlanta doesn’t drink Southern Comfort,” Joker cut in, then laughed. “I thought your taste was better, Frankie. Anyway, how’s the wife and kids? The littlest one is what, six now?”

The guard who’d drank from the flask started forwards, but Sharp stuck out his cane before anything further could happen. Batman recognized the man: Frank Boles, the man most rogues with half a brain stole alcohol from, provided he was carrying something good. Batman only remembered that because he had to return Boles’ flask when a very drunk Harvey broke into Roman Sionis’ house and tripped the perimeter alarm, then the fire alarm when he accidentally knocked over an ashtray with hot ashes on it. That Boles wasn’t fired after that wasn’t even a testament to how lax Arkham was about their guards. It was a testament to how much Roman let things slide when a friend was involved.

“Will the Batman be joining us for processing?” Sharp asked.

“He requested to,” Leland nodded. “Joker was singing in the car.”

“Is it marked on the processing sheet?” Sharp asked.

“As always,” Leland replied.

“Good,” Sharp nodded, then looked to Batman. “Gordon’s at Patient Handling, you two can speak there.”

Sharp stepped aside and the second set of doors opened. As he followed the guards and Leland, Batman quietly switched his radio frequency so he could hear what was going on with the others.

“I did not!” Tim’s voice was almost too loud. Great, they were fighting.

“Did too!” Dick shot back, as if he was the same age as the fourteen-year-old he was arguing with.

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty,” Prophet muttered as if this back and forth had been going on for a while. “Are you done? Because you’ve been at this for three minutes and I’m pretty sure Mothman already flew off to the nearest bug lamp.”

Batman smiled a bit at that, but knew Prophet had a point. If Dick and Tim hadn’t gotten into a fight, they probably would’ve caught the person they were chasing, and from the sound of it, that was probably Killer Moth. Drury Walker was hard to find at the best of times. After he’d escaped two vigilantes? There was no way anyone was finding him, except, perhaps...

“I’m onto the Moth,” Kate interrupted. “He’s headed for Gotham Heights.”

“On it,” Cass pitched in.

“ _Oye, niños,_ ” Prophet sang, “they’re making you look bad.”

Batman switched the channel back to Oracle’s and returned his attention to Joker, who was still chattering like a champ. There was no way anyone was getting him to shut up. You could hear his brogue edging into his voice as he spoke. Batman didn’t listen to most of it; he was paying more attention to Joker himself.

He was dressed nicely, done up for a party from the looks of it. The suit was brand new, with dark green satin lapels and a ridiculous pink corsage that looked like a demented daisy. The dandelion yellow suit vest was decorated with a reflective harlequin pattern, and the light green shirt underneath had to be silk. And of course, the green string tie was the same satin as the lapels. The shoes weren’t new, but by god if he didn’t shine them enough to look the part and wrap them with bright yellow spats.

Holding Mayor Hill hostage was definitely not Joker’s definition of a party. He’d done it before... in Superman basketball shorts and sandals with the worst hangover Batman had seen. If that was a special occasion, Batman wore glitter.

Leland stepped around just before the contraband scanner, “We’ve got Batman heading through processing. Exclude him from the scan.”

“Yes, Dr. Leland,” the operator said.

The scanner doors opened, and the guards ushered Joker inside. Batman and Leland followed. There was a loud buzzer, and Leland stepped in front of Joker and held out a hand.

“Not me,” Joker hummed. “Must’ve forgotten to exclude—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Jack.” Leland cut Joker off. “Hand it over.”

Joker let out a loud sigh and dug through his pocket, muttering about eagle-eyed shrinks. He slapped a bright purple zippo lighter in Leland’s hand and scrunched his shoulders up. If Batman could see his face, he’d probably see that Joker was pouting.

The tunnel opened and Leland tossed the lighter to the guard on the other end. The guard quickly moved the lighter out of the way as another guard tried to snag it from him.

“Back to your cell, Basil,” Leland said, not looking at the guard. The second guard looked at Leland, then hurried off. If you looked closely, you could see him shift into a formless blob of clay and lurch into a vent.

The next set of doors opened, and Leland sighed as a doctor came into view at the fourth set of doors. Batman didn’t blame her; this man was unsettling. He was on the round side, with a slightly squashed nose and watery blue eyes.

“Great,” she muttered. “Valentine’s on shift.”

“Hello Joan,” the doctor smiled, as if trying to be cordial.

“Dr. Valentine.” Leland stared straight ahead as the doctor looked over Joker, quickly retracting his hand when Joker snapped at him.

“He’s fine, let him go through,” the doctor stepped back.

“Thank you, Dr. Valentine,” Leland said sharply. She allowed the guards to head through, staring right at the doctor. “And it’s Dr. Leland, please.”

“Of course,” the doctor smiled. “Joan.”

Through the doors, the procession came to a stop, the gate blocking them off from the elevator. The elevator was steadily rising, just a little.

“What’s going on?” Leland asked.

“Category 9 in transit,” a guard said.

“Croc!” Joker chirped as the elevator rolled into view. Sure enough, behind three guards and a small inmate holding a parasol, was the man, or monster, himself: Killer Croc. Croc rolled his shoulders and curled his scaly lips into a toothy snarl at the sight of Joker. It was quite obvious what Croc’s small companion was there for. If the blonde ringlets, done up in pigtails, didn’t give it away, the parasol certainly did. Mary Dahl was ideal for keeping Croc in check, not the least because he was fond of her.

“Easy, Waylon,” Mary smirked. “We’re not here to chat, Jacksie. Go bother someone else.”

“I’d love to, dollface, but my hands are tied.” Joker gleefully held up his arms to show his cuffed wrists. “How’s my favorite pair of star-crossed lovers?”

“I can eat his face,” Croc suggested, starting forwards.

“That would be doing him a favor,” Mary shook her head, starting to skip out of the elevator after the guards. “Come on Waylon, I can smell Boles’ whiskey. Crane smells nicer after a binge.”

Croc grunted and followed after Mary, catching eyes with Batman as he passed.

“Best watch yourself boy,” he suggested. “Baby ain’t got a problem with me chewin on you.” Mary let out a sharp laugh from down the hall and Croc kept moving.

“Those two seriously freak me out,” a guard muttered under his breath.

“You’re clear, Dr. Leland,” the operator said, and Joker was ushered into the elevator. As the doors closed, Leland leaned on one wall and rubbed her temples.

“Long night?” Batman guessed.

“Well we’ve got most of our regulars here,” Leland nodded, “not to mention the transfer of most of the Blackgate inmates as well.”

“The fire, right?” Batman guessed. He had Nightwing looking into that; it didn’t seem like Firefly’s MO.

“The fire,” Leland sighed. “Thanks for following through processing, I’m pretty sure it would’ve been more of a headache without you here.”

The elevator doors opened, and Joker was shoved out by Boles. Joker quite happily walked after that.

“What are you actually up to?” Batman asked, slipping into place just behind Joker.

“Spoilers, Batsy,” Joker sang. Leland led the guards and Joker through the hallways until they reached the Patient Handling desk. Batman felt a little better seeing Gordon filing paperwork in front of it, and a little more secure seeing the Arkham intern, Salem Jackson, at the reception desk. Salem was one of the more no-nonsense therapists at Arkham, and popular with the inmates to boot. Check-in almost always ran smoothly when she was around.

“Hey Bats,” Salem waved, “Gordon said tonight’s been slow for you lot.”

“Aside from the City Hall mishap,” Gordon corrected.

“Aside from that,” Salem nodded. “Seen Harvey lately, Mr. Gordon?”

“No sign of Dent yet, Miss Jackson,” Gordon replied.

“He’ll turn up sooner or later,” Salem turned to Batman. “Oh, Bats, you can’t go past here. Staff only.”

“Why not?” Gordon looked up at Salem, who shrugged.

“Kellerman said he’ll unsettle the more violent patients,” she answered. “I’m just the intern. I can’t argue with a doctor.”

“She can’t,” Leland agreed, leaning on the desk. “There’s an observation window at the holding cells though.”

Batman walked over to the window and leaned on it. He barely noticed Salem leaning on the window beside him. Boles walked over to talk to Leland; Batman largely tuned their conversation out. Joker was walking across the Holding Cell floor. This was the last chance Batman had to figure out what was going on.

“Think he’s up to something?” Salem asked.

“He always is,” Batman sighed.

Joker spun his head upside down from where he was walking, and he grinned.

Not good.

Using one guard’s hip as a launch point, Joker jumped up, hooked his leg around another guard’s neck, and spun him to the ground fast enough to break his neck. Batman didn’t need to hear his neck crack; the motion was fast enough that it would be impossible for the neck not to break.

Joker swung his hands up to hit the second guard in the jaw, then kicked the third’s feet out from under him, kicking him hard in the head once he was down.

Batman clicked his teeth and Joker waved, flipping his hands out of the handcuffs with ease and dropping them on one of the guards.

“Harley, if you’d be a dear,” he shouted, and the security gate on the far side of the cells shut off.

“Oh, well that’s just not fair.” Salem hopped to her feet and swiped her keycard on the gate lock. “Have fun.”

Batman stepped in, and Joker was singing again, the same exact song. This time, on the other side of a locked security gate. Perfect.

There was another loud buzzer, and the holding cell doors slid open.

“Oh, come on!” Salem shouted from the observation deck. “That’s fucking cheating!”

Batman met eyes with Joker and sighed.

So much for a slow night.


	2. Planning a Party

The patient pacification chamber was locked when Batman got to it. Three guards stood outside, trying in vain to convince someone to let a fourth guard go. Batman knew they weren’t getting through the second he heard the response: mostly Russian and primarily panicked swearing.

Batman almost rolled his eyes. There was enough going on already. He’d been through four gangs of thugs since the ones in the holding cell, and had lost Joker in the maze of hallways. He knew there was a vent he could get through at Patient Pacification, but with the whole thing locked down, he wasn’t getting in. He didn’t blame the patient inside, Viktor Zsasz was a jumpy sort and incidents happened all the time.

One guard noticed Batman, and ran up quickly. Batman made a quick note of his nametag: James McBride, but most of the staff called him Jimmy. None of the three wore a heavy wool jacket over their gear, like Jimmy’s teammate, Mike. The other two, still at the door, were probably Ike and Ian.

“Zsasz,” Jimmy said quickly, as if that was a suitable explanation. “It’s Zsasz. He freaked out when Mike got too close, and he’s threatening to kill him if we try to go in. At least, I think he is. Hard to tell.”

“ _ уходить! _ ” came the frantic voice from inside the room, “ _ уходить, уходить, уходить! _ ”

“What’s he saying now?” another guard shouted. The edge of a Texan drawl betrayed Ike.

“I don’t speak Russian!” Jimmy shouted.

“He’s saying, ‘go away’,” Oracle whispered in the headset.

“He wants you to leave,” Batman said to the guards, who looked at the security door hesitantly. “Stay here.”

“He’ll kill Mike if he sees you!” Ike protested.

“Then he won’t,” Batman replied, going around the guards and climbing the maintenance staircase. On the way up, he heard Zsasz singing to himself. Normally he’d already be sick of singing, but Zsasz’s singing always just indicated he was scared. Mike was pinned under him while he sat on the man’s stomach. He held a scalpel to the guard’s throat and tensed his shoulders, singing just loudly enough for Batman to make out the words. He was scared, no doubt Mike was also extremely scared. Batman slipped around to the observation deck and hushed the guards up there, looking down at the scene quietly.

“ _ Баю-баюшки-баю, Не ложися на краю. Придет серенький волчок И ухватит за бочок— _ ”

Zsasz stopped singing and looked around. He stepped away from Mike and walked farther into the room, almost dazed. His hair fell lank in his face, so he hadn’t snapped into full defense mode, yet. That was good, for Mike.

“ _ привет? _ ” he called out into the room. Batman took a deep breath and vaulted over the deck, landing between Zsasz and the downed guard. Zsasz spun around and held the scalpel out, his blue eyes wide and his hand shaking.

“ _ нет! _ ” he shouted at Batman. “ _ уходить! _ ”

“Viktor,” Batman lowered his voice. “Breathe. You need to calm down. These people aren’t here to hurt you.”

Zsasz looked up at the guards on the observation deck, then through the security door beside him. He was breathing heavily. Batman was worried, for a moment, that Zsasz didn’t believe him.

“Promise?” Zsasz whispered, finally speaking in English. “Do you promise they won’t hurt me?”

“Just put that down and come over here,” Batman said.

“Do you promise?” Zsasz repeated.

“Yes,” Batman nodded. “I promise.”

Zsasz, eyeing the guards behind the security gate, put the scalpel down and slowly walked over to Batman. He hugged Batman’s arm tightly and hid behind it as the security gate reopened and the guards hurried in. Ike rushed over to check on Mike, while Jimmy and Ian walked over to Zsasz.

“He must’ve been spooked when the breakout started,” Jimmy sighed. “I can’t deescalate a situation when I can’t understand the patient. Mike tried.”

“Not the best idea,” Zsasz muttered from behind Batman. “He tried, but the cages look like monsters.” Zsasz made a claw motion in front of his face. “I don’t claw eyes out. Unnecessary.”

“It’s procedure, Viktor,” Batman said.

“Unnecessary,” Zsasz repeated.

“He might not claw at eyes, but he stabs them,” Ian pointed out.

“No knife, no stabbing,” Zsasz shrugged. “Easy.”

“Alright, whatever you say, shortstack,” Jimmy sighed. “Can we take you back to your cell now?”

“Is the cell safer?” Zsasz asked.

“Probably.” Jimmy nodded.

“Then yes, the cell sounds good.” Zsasz nodded and ducked under Bruce’s arm to cling to Ian’s arm.

“Oh, I have an attachment,” Ian sighed. “Wonderful.”

Mike laughed and removed his jacket, placing it over Zsasz’s head. Zsasz pulled the jacket down to his shoulders and put his arms through the sleeves. The whole jacket was too big, making Zsasz look even more like a child, but Zsasz seemed to be content with his new Mike-sized shield. Mike had endeared himself to Zsasz pretty quickly, but Ian and Ike were still pretty wary around their charge. The stories of the mortality rate of Zsasz’s guard team were certainly not a draw of the job.

Batman looked around for the vent, and just before he pulled the cover free, Zsasz piped up again.

“Is it Joker?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Yes,” Batman nodded.

“I can stab eyes out,” Zsasz offered.

“Viktor,” Jimmy sighed, “I thought we were going to your cell. I thought the cell sounded good.”

“Right,” Viktor nodded, “Call if eyes need stabbing.”

Batman almost smiled, but that was quickly destroyed when the monitor changed from a pretty calming repeating Arkham logo to an image of Harley Quinn. Harley looked a bit like she was trying very hard to look like a doctor, without ditching what made Harley Quinn Harley Quinn. She’d ditched the initial two-tone jumpsuit a week ago for some vaudeville-imitation look. It was, evidently, quite easy to just toss a lab coat over a vest and dressy shorts and call it a doctor costume. She was twirling Sharp’s cane in one hand, completing the impression that she was about to do a song and dance routine.

“ _стерва!_ ” Zsasz shouted, making Ian snort. That word had been repeated enough that at least one of them had figured out it was a curse word.

“Batsy!” Harley shouted. Zsasz looked over at Batman.

“It’s for you,” he said, as if it was a phone call.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Batman muttered.

“I gotta show you something! Hold on, hold on!” Harley rushed off-screen then leaned back. “You’ll love it. It’ll just take a sec.”

Something, probably a rolling chair with a person in it, got about two-thirds of the way across the screen, caught on the floor, and fell forwards with a loud crash.

“Oops!” Harley hurried back into the frame and righted the chair, revealing the person tied to it was Warden Sharp.

“Cell sounds fantastic now,” Zsasz said decisively.

“I’ll be filling in for Sharpie here,” Harley announced. “I think he’s happy with the arrangement.”

“That face is not happy,” Zsasz interrupted. “His face is very angry. Like toddler without toys.”

Batman stared at Harley expectantly. She couldn’t have just been here to tell him that she had Sharp. That was superfluous to the actual plan.

“Get to the point,” he said.

“Oh, so bossy,” Harley rolled her eyes. “It’s Mr. J’s homecoming so we’re gonna throw a party, and you’re  _ not _ gonna ruin it.”

“I’m not sure I can ruin any party Joker has already ruined,” Batman replied.

“ _ боже мой _ ,” Zsasz muttered to himself, trying not to laugh.

“Rude!” Harley kicked Sharp out of frame and smacked the camera with his cane. The visual went dead and Zsasz finally burst out laughing, all anxiety from the last five minutes seemingly dissipated.

“Make sure he gets back to his cell,” Batman advised the guards, then pulled the covering off the vent and climbed in.

“Bruce?” Oracle tested, as if uncertain of what was going on.

“I’m here,” Batman replied. “In a vent, excuse the echo.”

“Right.” Oracle let out an uncertain laugh. “So you’re not patched into the media, so you don’t know, but Joker’s sent a message out. Apparently, he’s got bombs set up all over the city. He’s threatening to detonate them if anyone sets foot on Arkham Island.”

“He’s bluffing,” Batman said.

“You can tell?” Oracle sounded uncertain.

“Yes,” Batman confirmed, “but to be safe, no one should try to get on the island.”

“Right,” Oracle sounded like she was typing. “I’m going to—ah crap.”

“What is it?” Batman asked.

“Guard comms are down,” Oracle replied. “I was going to patch you through.”

“It’s fine,” Batman said. “This vent leads to the Decontamination Room.”

“Be careful in there,” Oracle suggested. “Crane and Karlo like to climb in those vents.”

“I’m aware.” Batman nodded, then pulled free another vent cover, dropping it harmlessly below. The entry room was filled with panicked guards, and Batman could see why: through the window, a cloud of thick, bright green gas was visible. Batman sighed and walked over to pull free another vent that lead to a spot right atop the extraction fans. The room would only be filled if the fans were off. He just needed to turn them back on. Simple. Or rather, simple if the extraction fan controls weren’t on the far end of the room from the vent, in the middle of a cloud of Joker toxin. Batman got about as far as getting to the side of the room the controls were on before he realized his error.

“You could’ve just called.”

Batman jumped and spun to glare at Basil, who was standing, hands in his pockets, looking at Batman. He wasn’t about to ask why Basil was wearing street clothes, Basil didn’t technically have clothes, it was just molded clay.

“I’m mud,” Basil clarified. “Toxins don’t tend to work on mud.”

Batman kept glaring at Basil, waiting for him to catch on that he didn’t need Batman’s permission. It took him a second, but finally he melted down to the floor and reformed in front of the fan controls. He switched them on and looked up at Batman with a delighted grin as the gas was sucked out of the room. When the room was clear, Batman jumped down and surveyed the damage. Several poisoned guards and inmates, but not many were overexposed.

“Can you look after them, Basil?” Batman looked to Basil. Basil shrugged.

“I think that’s doable,” he confirmed. “Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye out for Joker. Last I saw him, he was in the transfer loop, on the way to Patient Isolation.”

“Who’s in isolation right now?” Batman asked.

Basil took a moment to think on that, “I think it’s just Maxie and Jerv. Joker’s been letting out inmates that can slow you down. I don’t suppose Maxie and Jerv count in that regard, do they?”

“Not particularly, no,” Batman confirmed. “So why head to Patient Isolation?”

“Uh...” Basil pouted, “the door locks tight once it is locked. It’s a good place to escape from if you need the guards scratching their heads for a few minutes. Of course, you can’t be in a cell, but otherwise you can get out pretty easily.”

“Thanks Basil,” Batman said, starting towards the door. As he was walking out, Basil started looking over the guards and inmates, checking to see which ones could still be saved. Joker Toxin killed slowly, but it definitely killed. It wasn’t like Fear Toxin, where a few minutes without exposure filtered it out of your system. If Joker Toxin hung in your system for long enough without treatment, you would die. Some of these men were beyond saving, but Basil could save the ones that weren’t.

Batman stepped out into the transfer loop and let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps that was premature, but he had two major inmates that weren’t going anywhere dangerous anytime soon. He figured it was enough.

* * *

“Something’s happening. Something’s happening. Something’s—”

Jonathan rolled his eyes and tuned out the man in the cell across from him. He thought it might be interesting, but the man hadn’t stopped repeating the same two words. Something was happening alright, if that something was a man driving the entire intensive treatment ward batty. Not that most of them weren’t already out of it, no fault of their own, of course. The amount of pills stuffed into Jonathan’s mattress was a testament to how intensive treatment patients were sedated. Jonathan wasn’t even supposed to be in intensive treatment; his usual cell was currently being cleaned. It wasn’t his fault that his new cellmate hadn’t really taken to their talk about personal space and decided the cell walls needed a new paint job. It also wasn’t his fault Leland kept looking away while Jonathan had access to her desk and her very pretty scalpel collection.

A click of heels caught Jonathan’s attention, as did the sudden silence of the man across from him. Jon sat up, but quickly lost interest when Harley walked into view.

“Hiya Jonny!” Harley greeted.

“No.” Jonathan fell back on his bed and shut his eyes.

“You’re still mad huh?” Harley pouted.

“Darlin I ain’t mad,” Jonathan sighed. “I’m pissed, reckon there’s a mighty big difference.”

“I promise it won’t happen again,” Harley offered.

“Yeah, promises ain’t gonna solve the problem, are they?” Jonathan sat up. “Y’all fucked up, darlin. Own up to it and apologize, or I ain’t helpin you or your fuckin’ cut-rate party clown.”

“Jonny, come on,” Harley pouted. “I’m sorry, you know that.”

“Ah,” Jonathan held up a hand. “But did you tell me y’all were sorry?”

“I just did!” Harley whined.

“You ain’t bein specific,” Jonathan pointed out. “I’m sorry for...”

“Jonny this is ridiculous!” Harley insisted.

“Bless your sweet lil heart,” Jonathan scoffed. “Y’all want my help, y’all best apologize.”

“Jonny, please, you’re on the guest list and everything!” Harley insisted.

“Guest list?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are y’all doin?”

“Throwing a party of course!” Harley replied. “Now, will you help stall the guest of honor until Mr. J’s ready for him?”

“Apology first,” Jonathan replied.

Harley rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry we kidnapped you and that I let Mr. J beat you with a chair, but you did call him a—what did you call him?”

“Called him a peach if memory serves,” Jonathan smirked. “What about you, sugar? Think you’re a peach too?”

“Watch it.” Harley held a cane through the bars of Jonathan’s cell, the jeweled end just under Jonathan’s chin. “Just because we have history doesn’t mean I’m going to let you ruin tonight.”

“Now, you didn’t go and steal that from Warden Sharp, did you?” Jonathan hummed, tapping the cane aside. “Mighty pretty thing. Would be a shame if you lost it because you were stickin’ things where they didn’t belong.”

Harley glared at Jonathan and dropped a pile of clothes at her feet. “Your costume,” she clarified. “Play nice. Medical building.”

“I don’t recall sayin’ yes,” Jonathan argued.

“You’ll say yes,” Harley warned, “or being beaten with a chair will be the least painful activity you’ll have to endure.”

Harley relaxed for a moment and dropped her attempt at looking threatening. She gently reached out and ran a hand through Jonathan’s curly hair. “Please don’t upset him, Jon! You know I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

“You don’t have to help him,” Jonathan pointed out. “Don’t even have to let me out.”

“Can’t do that.” Harley shook her head. “You know that. Play nice, Jon, okay?”

Jonathan sighed and lifted Harley’s hand away. “Bring me anything to get this party started?”

“Right!” Harley dug through her pocket and placed a small tablet in Jonathan’s open hand. It looked like a chalky kid’s vitamin, shaped like a silly kid’s skull. Jonathan looked up at Harley, who shrugged.

“He said it would work,” Harley shrugged. “Oh, and he said to give you this too.” Harley handed Jonathan a water bottle through the cell and then opened it before walking away.

Jonathan took two long swigs of the water bottle, and watched Harley disappear around the corner. He put the pill in his pocket and scooped up the clothes. Jonathan ran his hand over them, snagging frayed ends of burlap on his fingers. He left his glasses on his bed and headed for the closest vent, drinking the last of the water bottle as he walked.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

The transfer loop let out here, at a wide room with a huge blast door that currently sat wide open. Joker looked down at the mass of muscle straining against its leash below him, and rested his arm on one knee. His other hand rested on a revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants, in case the muscle in this situation broke free by some freak accident.

He was late.

He was always late.

Why was he always late? He knew Joker was impatient and liked getting things over with.

Bud nudged his way under Joker’s arm, and Joker scratched the hyena behind his ears. Harley had wanted to bring Bud  _ and _ Lou, but Joker didn’t need an aggressive female hyena trying to eat everything in sight tonight, so he settled for Bud. Bud was better behaved - and didn’t try to eat Joker’s corsage off his suit.

Bud flopped onto the crate beside Joker and let out a huge, heavy sigh, his big brown eyes looking around the room. Joker smiled and tapped Bud’s nose, then laughed when Bud licked his nose and sighed again. Footsteps began sounding down the hallway and Joker perked up.

“How do I look?” he asked Bud. Bud sneezed.

“You’re right, stunning as always.” Joker laughed and hopped to his feet. Bud shook his head and got to his feet, yawning wide as the Bat walked in.

He was so very good at glaring, that Batman. Of course, that was probably just his mask, it did kind of look like the angry brow wrinkles were molded into the mask.

Batman started towards Joker, but the mass of muscle below jerked forwards. Batman came to a stop, circling the mass like it had any right to be scrutinized.

“Heya Batsy,” Joker greeted. “Like him? I’ll admit he’s not as  _ precious _ as my lovely Bud,” at this Joker knelt down to scratch Bud behind his ears, “but he gets the job done. Would you like to meet him?”

Batman didn’t respond, but he was definitely ready for the leash to snap and for the mass of muscle to go after him. That was proof enough for him that it was about time to give Batman just a small taste of what would come for him soon enough. Joker kicked the leash loose with his heel and the mass of muscle roared forwards, nearly plowing Batman into a wall. Joker pulled out his revolver and aimed it at the muscle, pulling the hammer back.

“Bud,” he said softly. “Tangerine.”

Bud perked up at this and trotted through the blast doors. When the clicks of his feet were definitely down the hall and out of earshot, Joker turned back to the fight.

Batman wasn’t actually doing that badly, but of course it was kind of like watching a bat try to fight a bear. The bat doing well didn’t negate that its opponent only had to hit it once to utterly obliterate it. Besides, he’d seen what happened to these muscle masses after a while. This was a mercy compared to what the poor bastard would suffer in a few hours’ time.

Joker leveled the gun at around the muscle mass’s head. He barely heard Batman shout out in protest before he pulled the trigger with a deafening bang. There was a moment of stillness before the mass fell dead at Batman’s feet.

“Well, I can’t well have you dead before the party,” Joker justified, “can I, acushla?”

“What are you planning?” Batman demanded. Joker rolled his eyes.

“Okay then, instead of being boring...” Joker spun the revolver in his hand, then tossed it at Batman’s feet. “Why don’t we play a game? You get one chance, one to end this all before it even begins.” Joker tapped his forehead and spread his arms wide. “You know what that means. I’ll never trouble anyone again. It just takes one. pulled. trigger.”

Batman stared at Joker, and Joker stared back, almost begging Batman to pick up that stupid gun and fire it into his head. All this mercy, was it worth it?

But no, he wouldn’t pick it up; he never would. Even if he had a gun to his head, he wouldn’t kill anyone, not ever.

Perhaps that was worth a modicum of respect, from someone. Not from Joker obviously; he was too busy causing trouble to respect a man who dressed up like a bat.

“Well, if you’re gonna spend all night on this...” Joker lowered his arms and started through the blast doors. “I have a party to plan.”

The blast doors began to close, and Batman started forwards. He wouldn’t make the doors before they slammed shut. As he neared, Joker leaned through the small crack that was left and waved.

“ _ Slán _ ,” he sang as the masked man disappeared behind two explosive-proof doors.

When the doors were closed and his only audience was Bud gently nosing his hand, Joker’s smile faded. Joker ran a hand through his hair and turned to Bud. Bud let out a loud whoop and started trotting down the hall.

“Slow down,” Joker called after Bud, “Come on sweetie, don’t leave me alone.” Quietly, Joker added, “You’re all I have left.”

* * *

“Open the blast doors!” Batman rushed towards the guard room. The shuddering guard tried, but found his access blocked. The screen fuzzed with static and Harley’s image appeared, looking a little smug.

“Joker isn’t trying to get out, honey,” she hummed. “I’d worry more about your friends.”

The screen switched again, showing camera footage of the Patient Handling desk. Gordon and Boles were there, but Salem was long gone, off to help calm volatile patients with the other doctors, most likely. There was a pause before, as Gordon’s back was turned, Boles struck him in the back of his head and dragged him off. Batman felt his mouth go dry.

That was bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will have cute hyenas and Southern Jon so help me god.


	3. Southern Comfort

Batman walked up to the Patient Handling desk and stared at it. Salem’s ratty backpack was sitting on the far counter, the broken zipper partially open to expose the clutter of books stuffed inside.

Batman let out a slow breath and inhaled deeply, trying to get every possible scent into his nose. Salem’s musky perfume, Gordon’s pipe smoke, a very faint whisper of funnel cake from when the Joker walked through...they couldn’t be the only smells.

Then a smell hit Batman’s nose like a brick to the face: Southern Comfort, definitely Boles. Batman had gotten used to the drinks some rogues had a habit of smelling like; only two ever smelled like whiskey. One wasn’t here, ignoring that Harvey called Southern Comfort a poor facsimile of whiskey. The other… Bruce would sooner smell Fireball in his wake than any variation of Southern Comfort.

Following the smell of alcohol wouldn’t do him much good though, if he lost the trace even once, if a stronger smell intervened, he’d be up a creek with a leaky paddle and a stone canoe. He needed something more concrete.

Then he saw it, barely visible on the tile floors, a splatter of yellow liquid that gave off a strong musky smell. It was Salem’s perfume; she kept a large bottle of it in her bag. Batman pulled her bag all the way open. The perfume bottle was gone. Salem wouldn’t take it with her to calm patients, and of the guards, only Boles knew it was even in there.

Batman cracked a sliver of a grin; Boles had left him one single clue. All he had to do was follow it.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Batman knew that the moment he reached the elevator. It was farther up, maybe two or three floors. It would take time for it to come down and in that time, Boles and Gordon were getting further and further away.

Then there was a loud whistling, as if a heavy cord was rushing through the air fast. Batman didn’t have to guess what the noise was coming from. He bolted around the nearest corner and covered his head as the elevator came crashing down with a resounding bang. Batman cautiously peered around the corner to make sure it was safe to come out. when he was at least half-certain, he stepped out and looked at the warped clump of metal sitting at his feet.

He wasn’t even going to use the elevator; cutting the cords was completely unnecessary. Joker should’ve known that, but Harley was always less than stellar at figuring out Batman’s movements. She was also exactly the type of person who would drop an elevator on him.

Batman found another vent and climbed through it, up to the third floor. He dropped down and checked the floor for more perfume, then his comm flared to life.

“Top of the mornin!” Joker screamed. “You’ve no security on your comm interface, or Eddie had really good bypass networks. Either way, I’ve something to show you.”

Batman rolled his eyes, expecting something stupid, a kitschy song or the audio of a cartoon Joker wanted to play, but what came to his ears was far from that.

“Boles? What are you—What’s she doing here?”

Batman felt his stomach sink as he heard Boles’ ragged breathing, as if he was trying very hard to keep his composure.

“I’m sorry.” Boles’ voice shook with each word. “I’m so sorry.”

Gunfire, screaming, Harley’s morbid laughter, they melted together in a blur of white noise. Batman stopped and leaned on a wall, taking a deep breath. This was the hard part, it always was, it always had been, it always would be. Gordon had said as much. You didn’t go in planning to watch or hear a person’s last breaths, but you had to be ready for it. That was hard, you had to get used to it and, in truth, you never truly would be. Batman had managed to muscle through that expectation of death while still seeing the killers as humans, but he wasn’t about to stand there and dictate to others about how easy that was. It wasn’t, and it never would be.

The noise ceased, replaced with Joker’s shrill laughter.

“Anywho, I’ve more work to do.” Joker sighed as his laughter died away. “Toodles!”

The comm went dead and after a short moment, Oracle spoke up.

“Is his accent getting stronger?” she asked.

“That’s the strongest I’ve heard it in a while,” Batman confirmed. “He’s either very excited, or getting frustrated by something.”

“Not by you, I hope,” Oracle added.

“He managed to start with a joke,” Batman pointed out. “He’s aware of the accent shift and can make fun of it. If he is frustrated, it’s not with me.”

“Good,” Oracle sighed. “That would be the last thing we need.”

Batman didn’t respond to that, he just continued after the trail, hearing talking further ahead, laughter. He was getting close. He could only hope Joker and Harley didn’t catch on to Boles’ trail before he got there.

* * *

Jonathan slid out of one of the vents. The autopsy room was being used as a makeshift surgery room, but Jonathan didn’t recognize the voices. Jonathan knew every doctor in Arkham. He didn’t recognize a single voice.

“Are you sure we should ignore the red alert?” one doctor asked.

“There’s no way out of Arkham this way,” another replied. “No inmate would come down here.”

Jonathan resisted the urge to laugh at that, laying the tablet Harley gave him on his tongue and closing his mouth around it. He needed to be at least somewhat sober for when Batman arrived, lest he miss out on some actually interesting fear. While he waited for the tablet to kick in, he needed to get something. Scream always helped Jon kick off some actual fun, but it always took him a bit to feel the effects nowadays.

It was important to note that no one in Arkham, neither the maintenance nor the security staff, knew where Jonathan kept his various stashes of fear toxin. It was really easy, therefore, to hide the canisters in places no one checked.

The fifth shelf on the right side of the autopsy room was covered with a cloth. Underneath was a full medical shelf filled with canisters of compressed fear toxin. No one had bothered to check it because the chemical that was supposed to be there, nitrous oxide, wasn’t really used in medical procedures anymore.

The trouble was just getting into the room without the doctors noticing.

Jonathan slipped into a maintenance closet and finally changed into the clothing Harley had given him. It would do for now, but it smelled like kettle corn and ecstasy. Jonathan ran a hand down the threadbare burlap covering the actual shirt, feeling for gaps in the fabric. Most of them were empty, cleared out by Joker at some point, but he missed a few spots. A scalpel on the left, kept in place with a concealed button, a butterfly knife at the ankle, hidden further by a pair of Drury’s worn combat boots. They did come with one concealed pocket where Jonathan had to move a multitool, but otherwise they were serviceable. Jonathan rolled his shoulders and stretched out his arms. It felt good to be back in the costume, all stitched leather and burlap snug against his skin, but not so tight he couldn’t hide weapons. Jonathan folded up his patient clothes and slid them onto a shelf before departing from the maintenance closet.

Jonathan pulled free a vent above the closet door and slid in. He pulled the gas mask and his burlap mask over his face, then paused to make sure the filters on his gas mask were secured through the holes in the burlap before tightening the collar. He slipped through the vent and dropped soundlessly to the ground. One small costume piece was left, and Jonathan was a bit wary about it. Normally a floppy hat was preferred, but Harley had given him a bolero instead. It worked fine, but it made Jonathan feel like an old west preacher about to go off about fire and brimstone. Great-uncle Sawyer was a weird old man and Jonathan didn’t really enjoy looking like him when he was trying to scare people. That he was scared of Sawyer Keeny didn’t mean other people were scared of a frail old fire-and-brimstone priest whose rosary now belonged to Jonathan.

Not like Sawyer Keeny could complain, six feet of dirt and arsenic generally kept people like him from complaining, or so Gran said.

Jonathan settled the hat on his head and looked at the men, too absorbed in their work to notice the newcomer in the room. Jonathan stepped up against the shelf he was looking for and slid the cloth aside, plucking two canisters from the bunch. They let out a soft clinking, and one of the men looked up, sighting Jonathan in the corner.

Jonatan grinned, an action not visible to the man, but perhaps that made his small head tilt all the more frightening.

“Shit!” the man started for the far side of the room, but he whatever he was grabbing for, Jonathan knew it was no weapon. The other doctor turned to Jonathan and backed away from the flayed patient on the bench. Jonathan laughed, mostly because the tablet was starting to take effect. By god, how funny these silly mortals were, so scared of something so simple. There were far scarier things around them.

“Hello?” the first man shouted into a radio. “Hello? Anyone? There’s—There’s—”

Jonathan stepped out from behind the shelf, sliding one canister into the loops of his belt and twisting the cap on the other. A thick orange mist drifted out of the canister, quickly filling the small room and spilling into the vent. Jonathan dropped the first canister to the floor and opened the second.

The men began to scream, and the patient on the bench convulsed violently. Jonathan looked the patient over, watching his eyes roll back as the painkillers in his system reacted with the toxin in the air. Jonathan braced one hand on the patient’s chin, and the other at the base of his skull. With one quick motion, he snapped the patient’s head past where it should go, and the convulsions stopped.

Jonathan let out a peal of delighted laughter and spun around the autopsy room. Oh, what fun he was going to have.

* * *

Boles exhaled slowly, pushing the cork down on Salem’s perfume bottle. Harley didn’t seem to notice from a bit ahead of him. She hopped up a small flight of steps and nudged a dead guard with one boot.

“So,” Harley turned to Boles and leaned on the cane, “this is as far as we go.”

“What do you mean?” Boles asked, pushing Gordon in front of him. Harley needed Jim alive, but she didn’t need Boles. Boles slipped the perfume into Gordon’s pocket and the two men exchanged a quick glance.

“Easy.” Harley snapped her fingers and a loud whoop sounded from behind them, followed by the click of dress shoes against linoleum.

“I’ve a thing to grant you!” Joker’s voice filled the room, rimmed with a brogue that made Boles’ blood run cold. “You’re a fecking bold sonova bitch.”

One of Joker’s blasted hyenas trotted up to Harley, whooping urgently.

“And a shame me mot’s not much good with noticing things,” Joker added, rounding Boles on the other side, pulling Salem’s perfume from Gordon’s pocket as he did. “Cute Colleen, Miss Jackson, has a real distinct smell.”

Joker dropped the bottle, letting it shatter on the ground.

“Amn’t an eejit Mr. Boles,” Joker continued, his voice shifting to an uncharacteristically stern tone. “You best not get in your thick head that you can play me for a fecking cod. I’ve enough to worry about without your bleeding heart trying to make a piss of my fun.”

Joker pulled a gun from behind him and pulled the trigger back, pointing it at Boles. “But don’t you worry your pretty head. I’ve decided to take you out of the equation before the whole party goes bockety.”

Boles swallowed and exhaled once more.

“Try speaking English,” he said.

Joker’s furious face was a perfect last image, almost worth the bullet to the head.

Almost.

* * *

Batman peered around the corner and turned back, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Of course the inmates now had guns. Why wouldn’t they? After all, it was exactly Joker’s style to install as many armed idiots as possible.

There were three, and a man up in the control room, reporting to Joker, no doubt. Batman climbed up into the rafters and dropped down behind the three men, quietly picking them off one by one. Once all three were out, he started for the control room. The inmate stood before three monitors, all showing the Joker lounging at the desk of another control tower.

“We’re just finishing up in here,” the inmate reported. “The guards never stood a chance.”

“Perfect, least someone’s not making a hames of their job,” Joker sighed. “You’ve a bat on your way. Can’t leave the building. Distract him or something, sound fair?”

“Yes boss,” the inmate nodded. “We’ll see to it.”

Batman slid around the corner and started towards the inmate, expecting Joker to say something. He didn’t mention Batman at all, he only lit up in delight, something the inmate wouldn’t notice.

“You’d better, would hate to see that lovely family of yours to pay because you’re a bucklepper.” Joker raised his eyebrows.

“But—” the inmate began, but Joker interrupted.

“Whisht! Hear that? Me last feck’s out the window, it is,” Joker said. “Just get it done and don’t make a right piss of it. Have a grand old time while you’re at it. I will.”

Joker burst out laughing and Batman took this moment to grab the inmate and strike a pressure point, knocking him out cold.

“Oh, you’re still alive,” Joker sighed. “Look, acushla, I’ve work to do and you, well, you’ve a mind to ruin that work. Now I don’t care for that at all at all. If you could park your fecking arse right here, I’d really appreciate it. Bye now.”

The monitors shut off and Batman stood there staring at them for a few seconds.

“Oracle,” he said carefully.

“Yes?” Oracle sounded like she was very amused.

“I’ve heard him say it twice now,” Bruce reported. “What does ‘acushla’ mean?”

“Something akin to ‘darling,’” Oracle replied.

Batman nodded. “Fantastic.”

Batman climbed into the vent in the control room and headed around the locked blast doors to the next room. This one was mostly empty, mostly. Batman went through the central office and out to the other side of the hallway. That’s about when he saw it. Boles face-up on the floor, a bullet in his head and Salem’s perfume bottle shattered in front of him. Bloody paw prints were tracked through the room. Batman looked at the pooling contents of the glass bottle and furrowed his brow.

So much for a trail.

There was a hazy screech of interference over Batman’s headset as someone’s unclear words attempted to get through.

“—atman? Come on you have to hear me.”

Batman sighed and tapped his comm. “I hear you Nygma. If this is about your riddles—”

“It might be,” Nygma answered, “but it’s not a bad thing. I’m tracking movements of Joker and his major ‘party guests’ to figure out how they’re getting past guard patrols while the other inmates aren’t.”

“You put the riddles in spots the patrols aren’t, right?” Batman guessed.

“At least places they don’t check frequently,” Nygma confirmed. “There are a few you’ll need security doors to bypass but if you don’t mind getting a riddle in each room, I might be able to be some variation of a guide.”

“Sounds painless,” Batman answered. “How does Joker know where your riddles are?”

“Well that’s the bad news.” Nygma sounded like he was pulling a face. “I only gave the map to one person and he’s...”

“In Arkham?” Batman guessed.

“And as per security footage, no longer in his...oh wait no, his cell’s being deep cleaned. Let me check his—no he’s not in there either.”

“Fantastic,” Batman muttered. “Is there a riddle in this room?”

“Yep,” Nygma popped his lips, “but don’t cut yourself on this sharply observed portrait.”

“The portrait of Warden Sharp,” Batman said, noting the portrait along one wall.

“That one was easy, and I sincerely apologize for its existence,” Nygma said. “I’ll update you with the next riddle when you get to it.”

The far door slammed open and Batman turned to it. A guard stood at the door, a terrified look on his face.

“Over here,” he said urgently. Batman walked over to him but wasn’t expecting much.

“Where’s Boles?” the guard asked. “I heard a gunshot.”

“Dead,” Batman answered. “And my trail with him.”

“Heard someone talking too,” the guard added, “besides Boles or Harley Quinn. I don’t know who it was, but he had an accent.”

“Irish?” Bruce guessed.

“Yeah, why?” the guard furrowed his brow.

“It was Joker,” Batman replied. “His accent’s slipping out.”

“He sounded angry,” the guard added, “and there was someone with him. I think it was the Commissioner.”

“I’ll head out and find them,” Batman promised. “You stay here.”

“Will do,” the guard nodded.

Batman started down the hall, as he did, Nygma came back on the comms.

“I know this is a bad time,” he said, “but Ryder’s on broadcast at Gotham Bay. He’s playing Joker’s message to the station.”

“Sounds like Ryder,” Batman sighed.

“Listen, this sounds like a bit much,” Nygma admitted. “I can contact Jon and Pam inside the prison and—”

“It’s fine,” Batman interrupted. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.” Nygma sounded uncertain. “If you’re sure.”

Batman continued on his way to an exit and stopped. Nygma spoke up again.

“The legacy of this island has been well and truly buried.”

Batman noted the graveyard off to one side. “The grave of Amadeus Arkham.”

“Mmhm,” Nygma hummed. Before he could say anything else, Batman heard a loud beeping and sighed.

“Oracle,” Batman said quickly as he walked. “Disable the Batmobile’s countermeasures.”

“Done,” Oracle replied. “You might wanna head over there, though.”

“Already on it,” Batman answered.

The trek to Arkham North wasn’t a long one, and there was a pitiful number of goons attacking the Batmobile. It wasn’t tough to get them taken care of. Then there was the area around it to look over. There was something scattered here, like small dried leaves.

Batman circled the Batmobile and found a pipe lying on the ground. Batman picked it up and pocketed it, then found a trail of the same dried leaves along the ground: a trail of tobacco.

Batman cracked a smile. Sometimes, he really had to thank his lucky stars Gordon was smarter than he looked.

* * *

They were in the Medical Facility, a no-brainer really. Shame was, there was definitely a security door right at the entrance, from one too many breakouts where Crane broke in and stole a scalpel or five.

Batman dropped down from a vent and looked around a corner. There were inmates everywhere, and one was hassling a doctor.

Well, was, before someone dropped from the vents and conveniently took out one thug, then two more, all in quick succession. Those that remained decided that now was a good time to run. Batman didn’t get a good look until the person straightened up and looked around.

So now came the question of where Zsasz’s guards were, and if they were alive. Batman really hoped the second question was a yes. Considering Mike’s jacket was still safely on him, Zsasz at least considered them safe people.

“Are you alright?” Zsasz asked the nearest doctor, who hurried away in a panic.

“Stay back!” she shouted. Zsasz looked hurt.

“I thought you were going back to your cell.” Batman rounded the corner.

“Heard Joker talking about Medical Facility,” Zsasz answered. “And Dr. Cassidy...” Zsasz trailed off, looking over at the panicked doctor. He frowned and turned his attention to his toes. “I wanted to help,” he mumbled softly.

“Dr. Cassidy,” Batman offered a hand to the scared doctor. “Where are the other doctors?”

“Um,” Cassidy shot Zsasz an uncertain look.

“He’s not here to hurt you,” Batman promised. “He came to help.”

“Saw Kellerman head to Patient Observation.” Zsasz pointed down one hall.

“He did,” Cassidy nodded. “Dr. Chen went to Surgery, and Dr. Young went to X-Ray.”

Batman nodded and headed for Surgery. It was a short walk, and he had a feeling Zsasz would leave after a few seconds.

Batman opened the doors to Surgery and wasn’t particularly surprised that Chen was strapped to a chair, or that there were thugs waiting above. Batman strode forwards and waited for the thugs to drop down before turning to them.

One tried to take him out with a punch, but Batman ducked under him and hit him hard in the stomach. With that man grounded, Batman hit another with an uppercut. The third started forwards hesitantly, and rightly so because once he was close enough, Batman hit him in the face with a hard kick. The second started to recover, but a broken nose tends to keep you from doing that.

Batman hurried to Chen and let him out. Before Batman could leave, Chen grabbed him and nodded to a nearby vent.

“The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” he whispered, then leaned back, breathing deeply. Batman stifled an annoyed groan and hurried to X-Ray.

There was something off when he got there though. Young was talking to the thugs like she could be in some level of control. Batman leaned on one wall and listened for a moment.

“Just let me talk to Joker,” Young begged.

“No way in hell,” one thug snapped. “He’s already pissed at you. Can’t stand hearing him talk like that.”

“But—” Young began but shut herself up as if she had a gun to her head.

Batman sighed and planted a small bomb on wall, knowing the thugs were there. Batman stepped away as the bomb began beeping. Once he was far enough away, the bomb blew, knocking the wall down on top of the thugs before they could run for it. Young screamed and ducked into a corner.

“You’re safe,” Batman attempted.

“You call that safe?” Young shouted. “Crane with a bottle of Jack is safer!”

Batman almost smiled. He wasn’t sure how true that statement was, but it was good to know Scarecrow had found a doctor he didn’t find annoying.

“Sorry, it was the only way to get in without alerting the guards.”

“Yeah,” Young nodded to the nearest vent. “You’re not exactly the right size for that. What’s going on?”

“Joker’s out,” Batman replied, “and in control.”

“Great,” Young sighed. “The other doctors?”

“I just need to find Kellerman,” Batman said. “Stay here.”

“Alright,” Young nodded. “I’ll do that, but I have work to do.”

Batman gave a curt nod and hurried off to Patient Observation, hoping Kellerman was safe.

Batman reached Patient Observation and saw Cash and Kellerman in the power room, and a sickly green gas on the observation deck. Batman counted to three, and lo and behold, Basil was next to him.

“Basil, what’re you doing out?” Cash asked through the window, almost as if he didn’t really care that Batman was there. More than likely, he didn’t.

“Helping,” Basil replied. “But I need eyes, or I can’t find the fan control panels.”

“On it,” Batman followed Basil up through a vent and at the top of the observation deck.

“There’s one across the room from me,” Batman noted as Basil melted to the floor. “East wall.”

Basil reformed in front of the panel and turned it on. The first fan roared to life.

“The next is on the west wall,” Batman continued. Once the second fan was on, he finished with, “The last is on the south wall, near the corner.”

Once all three fans were on, the gas left the room quickly, and Batman jumped down to talk to Cash.

“Chen heard singing,” he said as Cash approached. “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

“Crane,” Kellerman said before Cash could respond. “I’ve heard him sing it before.”

Kellerman’s voice sounded nervous. Kellerman was, after all, fairly afraid of Crane. He’d never really recovered from Crane’s attempt to experiment on him. No one really recovered from a brush with Crane’s darker side.

“Crane’s probably looking for a toxin stash,” Cash guessed. “He has them all over the place.”

“I need to find Joker.” Batman waved off the trouble. “I can deal with Crane later.”

“Not sure that’s smart,” Cash shrugged, “but okay.”

Batman turned to leave when the doors slammed open, revealing Young in a panic.

“My research notes!” she almost shouted. “They’re in the mansion! I need to go get them!”

“It’s safer here,” Batman and Cash said at the same time.

“Yeah and do you have any idea what will happen if Joker gets a hold of my research notes?” Young countered. “This is more important.”

Before anyone else could speak, there was a loud buzzer and Batman sighed.

“Is that the elevator?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Cash nodded.

“I’ll head to the basement,” Batman concluded. “See if Scarecrow has any insight on what Joker’s planning. Take Dr. Young to the mansion, I’ll catch up.”

“Good luck,” Cash said as he left the room.

Batman started for the elevator, wondering to himself if it was really luck he needed. This was Jonathan Crane, after all.

You needed a lot more than luck to deal with someone like Jonathan Crane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scarecrow Cometh
> 
> Before anyone asks: Yes my Joker is Irish, yes I did run his accent by an Irish person before sticking it in.


	4. Fear Itself

Batman stepped out of the elevator a little more than uncertain. Thunder rolled, announcing the storm approaching as lightning lit up the autopsy room directly in front of the elevator. The glass-walled room was filled to the observation table with a thick orange smoke, billowing about like morning mist. Splayed across the table was the body of a man, a yellow-tinted froth dripping up his face. Batman slowly stepped forwards, ignoring the stale stench of blood, mingled with a burning chemical smell.

Lightning lit the autopsy room again, and a shadow lit up to the back. Tall and skeletal, a superstitious man would be forgiven for thinking the shadow was death.

The shadow twisted itself up in knots and dropped to the ground. Batman swallowed and edged around the room to see where the shadow had gone. As he approached, a form quickly crawled into view behind the security door, then pulled itself into a walkover before disappearing around the other corner. Batman didn’t quite have a description of how the form moved, but he figured calling it unnatural was apt. The limbs had bent and twisted in ways humans were not supposed to. The fact that it was human was something Batman would’ve never guessed if he hadn’t known for a fact who it was and why they could move like that.

The security door wasn’t opening anytime soon, so Batman looked to a nearby crawlspace someone had kicked in. It was just big enough for Batman to crouch low in. Batman took a deep breath, but it felt shallow. Was the crawlspace really that tight?

Batman slid out into a hallway and looked down both ends of the hallway, as he turned back to the nearer corner, the once empty entryway has a figure dragging himself across the floor. Batman started forwards, immediately recognizing the figure as Gordon. Before he could reach the commissioner, something dragged him back, letting out a low, guttural laugh as it did.

“Ain’t you lookin harder?” a gravelly, low voice asked, echoing through the hallway. “Wendigo’s gettin hungry.”

Batman rounded the corner and hurried forwards until he rounded another corner and found Gordon again.

“Oh, Gordon,” Batman sighed, slumping his shoulders in defeat. Gordon was slumped against the wall, head lolled forwards, hands limply in his lap. Batman carefully walked forwards and lifted Gordon’s head to check his pulse. Nothing beat against his fingertips. Gordon’s eyes were sewn shut, as was his mouth. Batman stood and turned on his comm.

“Barbara?”

Static.

“Barbara, please.” Batman took a deep breath. “Barbara, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

More static, then the busy signal. Batman took a deep breath and looked around. He stepped back and heard a faint crunch. A quick check revealed under his boot was a large cockroach. No, not just one; they were everywhere, inching out of the cracks in the walls and corners. Batman followed their frenetic hurrying, gathering down the hall to a pair of double doors. Batman followed them to the end of the hall, flinching as the unlucky few crunched under his feet. He pushed open the doors and found an empty morgue. Nothing. No cockroaches, no people, nothing. Batman circled the room, looking for a clue, something, but couldn’t find anything, just an echoing whispering that pounded against his head. After a few minutes, Batman rushed out the doors, unable to take the emptiness.

He took one step out of the morgue and froze. It was the morgue, again. This time, a body bag sat on the far bench, completely still. Batman approached it, almost hesitant to open it, but he knew Scarecrow: he’d hide anywhere. Before he could reach for the zipper, a voice sounded behind him.

“Bruce, sweetie.”

Batman turned to the voice, not wanting to, but unable to resist. He knew that voice, he knew its kindness and soft tone. He turned and stared into the face of his mother.

Martha Wayne smiled warmly and rested a hand on Bruce’s cheek, her dark blue eyes were dull, and her hand was cold, but it was her. Her hair was still pulled back on one side, letting her loose black curls fall to the other, stopping just below her chin. Pearls were looped around her neck, matching her champagne colored dress perfectly. Bruce’s eyes drifted down as blood spread across the pale fabric.

Martha’s face began to gray, then discolored further, turning strange shades of yellow and orange as bits of flesh began falling loose. Bruce jolted backwards, bracing himself on the table. Arms locked around his neck and Martha’s voice whispered into his ear.

“Bruce,” it hissed. “Bruce, he’s here.”

* * *

Fear was fascinating. It sustained Jonathan like nothing else. There was nothing more flavorful than the many ways a person could panic at the sight of their worst fears made real. It didn’t even need to be their worst fears. Anything could cause a jump, a shudder, a panicked breath, especially if you pumped their lungs full of Fear Toxin.

Jonathan braced his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in close to Batman’s face. His blue eyes were dilated, breath labored, a cold sweat visible on his exposed skin. Jonathan needed to savor this moment; it wouldn’t last long.

Jonathan tilted his head to the side and slowly lifted Batman’s mask, just slightly so the man’s eyes were more visible. Jonathan shifted in front of the security camera as he did. He laughed and pressed his forehead against Batman’s inhaling deeply. After a moment he moved back and lowered the cowl.

“Ain’t he cute?” Jonathan hopped up and spun around to one of the tables. He hopped up and pulled his mask free. “Joker, that is. Bless him, thinks of everythin’. Bet you he was monitorin’ the rest of us, knew I was off my meds. Y’all on the outside couldn’t possibly know that.”

Jonathan hopped down and spun a few times in a half skip, breathing the toxin in the air deeply and letting out a contented sigh. His own heart was beating out of its chest as the walls crumbled around him, revealing skeletal monstrosities clawing their way through spiderwebs, hissing at him as a flurry of spiders scrambled to keep them in. Jonathan turned back to Batman and fell into a fit of hysterical laughter until tears fell from his face.

“ _ This _ ,” Jonathan gestured to the entirety of the morgue. “ _ This is my kingdom _ .” Jonathan rushed towards Batman, stopping himself mere inches from him. “And I don’t plan on just walkin’ back to my cell because you  _ asked nicely _ .”

Jonathan looked over Batman for a second, then scooped up his mask and started out.

“Shut the door on your way out,” Jonathan suggested, leaning out of the door and walking away. He pulled his mask back on and breathed in deeply a few times, just until the visions faded away. He cracked his neck and quieted his growling stomach.

He was through the vents as the morgue doors slammed open.

* * *

He was gone.

Of course he was, Batman shook his head clear. He took a few steps and stared at the hall ahead. A guard lay limp against the wall where Batman thought he’d seen Gordon. Batman heaved a sigh of relief and turned on his comm. He couldn’t figure out when he’d turned it off, but that hardly mattered now.

“Barbara,” he whispered.

“Oh, thank god,” Oracle sighed. “Audrey, he’s okay.”

“Told you he’d be fine,” came a response in the background.

“Alright.” Oracle’s voice snapped to a business-like tone. “What happened?”

“Scarecrow happened,” Batman replied.

“Oh, it’s always fun when Jonathan joins the party,” Oracle muttered. “How bad is he?”

“Breathing his own toxins,” Batman replied.

“So, bad.” Oracle sighed. “Good. Did you catch him?”

“No,” Batman admitted. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. He’s bound to come back. Any updates?”

“None,” Oracle replied. “Jack Ryder called.”

“Great,” Batman muttered.

“Specifically, he called Batman, but it was just a wellness check. I said you’re fine,” Oracle clarified. “What’s your problem with Jack anyway?”

“Jack doesn’t like me,” Batman replied. “He’s fine with the vigilante, but he can’t stand Bruce Wayne.”

“You think he’s jealous?” Oracle asked. “You know, with Vicki Vale and all?”

“No,” Batman replied. He was a little amused at the suggestion. Vicki had once said Ryder knew too many secrets for her to want to date him. “He thinks I’m privileged.”

“He’s not wrong,” Oracle pointed out. “Oh, here’s an interesting tidbit. There’s a lab down there with a Patient X inside.”

“How do you know that?” Batman asked.

“Nygma sent you an email. It’s just a bunch of notes Scarecrow’s been gathering,” Oracle replied. “It’s specifically called ‘Notes on Project Titan’.”

That sounded familiar, and hearing that Crane was attached was exactly not what he wanted to hear right now.

“What’s Crane have to do with Project Titan?”

“Chemistry consultant from the looks of it, along with a Neil Richards and an… Angelo Sanchez? Is that—?”

“Bane,” Batman climbed into a vent and headed through it. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Bane for a few weeks. Unsurprising, really, Bane’s operations in Gotham were lowkey, and Batman didn’t tend to track him personally unless something weird showed up. His operations were running like normal and Batman had broken up a few buys the night before. There was still someone running the back of house. Batman wasn’t about to go looking for a fight with a man who could bend an iron bar with minimal effort.

Not accounting for the six times he’d tried previously, or the two times he tried with Superman. Those were mistakes and he greatly regretted them.

Batman dropped down into the room. It was mostly empty, with stained linoleum that certainly had been white at some point. A large, shattered cage was tucked into one corner. Batman walked over to the cage and inspected the twisted metal. Most of these were ripped clean off, and any sharp edges had been melted or sanded later, but moving the cage would’ve been costly. Arkham had gotten a taker to use the metal as scrap, but the buyer became an inmate about halfway through the sale. That said, Batman was genuinely wondering who had left a bunch of skeletons in the cage. They were medical skeletons, not real ones, but whoever had done it had a sick sense of humor.

“Oh god. Jon wrote this one,” Nygma muttered, reminding Batman that he was, indeed, still on the comm line.

“Hi Eddie,” Oracle chimed.

“Hi Babs, how’s your dad?”

“Kidnapped. How’s the boyfriend?”

“Huffing Fear Toxin and writing morbid riddles.”

“So same as always?”

“Same as always. Okay, riddle: Someone isn’t getting out of here alive.” There was a pause, then Nygma added, quietly, “Jon, what the fuck?”

“There is a cage with medical skeletons in front of me,” Batman pointed out. “I think this is supposed to be a joke.”

“Can someone tell me what exactly led me to reading riddles into a headset while my boyfriend runs around a mental hospital in a manic phase?” Nygma asked.

“You hacked the city power grid,” Oracle said. “So you could steal information from City Hall.”

“Yeah, gotcha, thanks,” Nygma sighed, then went offline.

“He’s taking his meds,” Oracle noted. “I’m proud of him.”

Batman rounded a corner and looked through a plated glass window into a massive room. A steel chamber fitted to the catwalks was suspended in the center of the room as five thugs patrolled the catwalk. In the control room above, Batman sighted Gordon and Harley.

Harley had a gun.

Great.

Batman circled up to a vent and swung out of it onto a ledge, watching one thug pass. Before he was all the way past, Batman jumped down and clapped a hand over his mouth. He pressed on thumb into a pressure point and the thug went limp. Batman slid under the catwalk and followed it to the next thug, knocking him out quickly and disappearing back under the catwalk before a third guard arrived.

It took a few minutes, but eventually the room was cleared of all five thugs and Batman climbed up onto the top of the control room. There was a vent on the top. Batman kicked in the vent and dropped down between Gordon and Harley. He took the few minutes of shock he had and grabbed the gun from Harley’s hand. Harley looked down at her empty hands, then back up at Batman.

“I’d run,” Batman suggested. Harley didn’t wait around to see why he was saying that. She ran out of the room before Batman could do anything else.

“Well,” Gordon nodded. “That was eventful.”

Batman avoided cracking a smile and untied Gordon. “You’re safe now, at least.”

“Not so sure about that.” Gordon got to his feet. “There’s someone in there.” Gordon nodded to the steel chamber. “I didn’t manage to get a good look, but when Harley passed, I heard shouting.”

Batman looked down at the chamber and carefully made his way down to the entrance. He didn’t notice Gordon following until he opened the door and heard Gordon gasp behind him.

“Jesus.”

That would’ve been a lot nicer than what was there. Strapped in place, glaring at Batman with cold brown eyes, was Bane. He drew his lips into a snarl and strained against the straps. A single motion revealed a black collar locked onto his neck.

“ _ Oye! _ ” Bane shouted. “ _ Déjame salir! ¡Ándale! _ ”

“Calm down.” Batman stepped forwards.

“ _ Vete a la chingada _ ,” Bane spat in response. “ _ Escucha _ , I can be as rude as I want or as loud as I want, I haven’t moved in three days. You get that through your head,  _ mocoso _ ? Three days.  _ Tres, trois, trzy, drei _ , I don’t care how you say it just get me the fuck off this thing.”

Batman lifted Bane’s chin to look at the collar around his neck. Bane tilted his head, letting Batman look, even if it was a reluctant action. It was a standard inhibitor collar Arkham put on metahuman patients like Drury Walker or Maxwell Mavis. It was akin to a black shock collar with two large red-lit dials on either side of the neck. The dials had small pulse emitters that, when active, kept the patient from using their metahuman abilities.

“This inhibits your strength,” Batman muttered, more to himself.

“ _ Vaya _ , I hadn’t noticed,” Bane muttered.

“Why would anyone need your strength inhibited?” Batman asked. “You never wear a collar, even in Belle Reve.”

“Yeah well Belle Reve doesn’t strap me down and cut pieces of FLESH OFF NOW DO THEY?”

“You don’t need to shout,” Batman said. “I can hear you fine.”

“ _ Eres un cabrón _ .”

“Thanks.”

“ _ No hay de qué _ .”

“Do they want something from your skin?” Batman asked trying to find the inhibitor collar’s shut off switch.

“Venom, if I’m guessing correctly,” Bane answered. “Dr. Young wants it, but she isn’t telling anyone what for.”

“Crane might know,” Batman noted. “He was listed as a consultant, along with Neil Richards.”

“Mod? Mod works with drugs, but you wouldn’t need my DNA for anything involving Venom.” Bane paused. “I mean, unless you need it to last longer.”

“The DNA splicing from Project Bane?” Gordon guessed.

“ _ Exactamente _ ,” Bane nodded. “ _ Hola jefe _ .”

“Hi Angelo. Fun night huh?”

“ _ Sí,  _ very fun.”

Batman found the shut-off knob and turned it. The red light on the side turned off and Bane gently nudged him aside with his arm. When Batman was out of the way, Bane tore free of the straps holding him down and rolled out his shoulders. He looked thinner, not that Bane looked particularly robust off Venom. Venom devoured calories, leaving Bane almost devoid of body fat and lean-muscled. Bags hung thick under his gray eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days, and he had a few new scars, small as they were.

“ _ Carajo _ ,” he muttered. “Still stiff. So, what are you doing here anyway,  _ mamón _ ? You don’t usually break into Arkham looking for criminals.”

“Joker’s taken over the whole place,” Batman replied. “I’m figuring out what he wants.”

“Well,” Bane raised his eyebrows. “If it has to do with whatever Dr. Young is up to, you’ll have to hurry.”

“Why would I need to do that?”

“You’ll need to get there before I break her skinny neck.”

“Bane,” Batman stepped in front of Bane, usually a bad choice, but Bane wasn’t about to sucker punch the person who set him free.

“That - ” Bane pointed to the stretcher he was strapped to, “ - was torture. I was strapped down and cut up. It was  _ degrading _ , like I was a fucking animal. The last time I felt that violated was in Peño Duro. You may have your moral hang-ups about killing people, but I don’t.”

“What would it solve?” Batman asked, not moving an inch. “You’d be another rogue doing exactly what Joker wants you to do. Revenge won’t change anything.”

“But I’ll feel better,” Bane pointed out. “There would be real justice. You know as well as I do the system failed to even notice I was here. I want justice.”

“And killing a young woman trying to help people is justice?” Batman asked.

“ _ Ah si _ , she’s helped a whole lot,” Bane scoffed. “Torturing inmates and everything,  _ muy servicial _ .”

“Bane.” Batman stepped back as Bane stepped forwards. “You’re angry, and have every right, but this isn’t the time.”

“Then when is?” Bane shouted. “When is it  _ convenient _ for you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Batman continued, trying to keep his voice level. “ _ I  _ need your help. The inmates who are out and in danger need your help. That can’t happen if you’re on a revenge quest after Dr. Young.”

Bane paused and relaxed his shoulders. “ _ Que? _ ”

“Joker’s scared of you,” Batman pointed out. “And you’re one of the only inmates who can handle Croc without hurting him. You care about Waylon, don’t you?”

Bane scowled but shrugged. “So you want me to keep the inmates in their cells?”

Batman nodded.

“And if I get the chance, you won’t stop me from getting revenge on Dr. Young?” Bane clarified.

“If you’re not in sight,” Batman conceded. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

“ _ Síganme _ ,” Bane stepped around Batman and started out of the lab. Batman and Gordon followed Bane through a series of corridors that eventually led outside. Bane turned back to Batman.

“You need to get  _ jefe _ out of here,” Bane pointed out. “He’s not safe.”

“I will,” Batman nodded.

Bane tore the inhibitor collar off his neck and crushed it. “I’m going to head for the sewers. If you get to Croc’s cell first, I’ll meet you there. _Entonces,_ _hasta luego_.”

Bane walked away, and Gordon stepped off to breathe the fresh air.

“I never want to see that basement again.”

* * *

The hallway outside Waylon’s cell was too quiet. A guard passed every two hours, but he hadn’t seen a guard in the last four. Mary was watching the hallway from her own cell, and stood, looking down the hall as well as she could.

“Somethin’ wrong, Baby?” Waylon asked, peering out of the slit in his door.

“By the pricking of my thumbs.” Mary muttered, inclining her head, tilting it up at a slight angle so she looked like a limp doll. “Something wicked this way comes.”

Waylon growled from inside his cage as a long, limber figure stepped into view at the end of the hall. “Ain’t nothin; more wicked than a cursed crow.”

The figure turned down the hallway. There was a gentle sway to its hips, an unnatural skip to its gait, and a precise step pattern. Waylon leaned on the cell door, watching in delight.

“Come see,  _ cher _ ,” he continued, his voice low. “Come see.”

Mary’s lips curled into a smile as the figure began to walk towards the cell. Humming filled the hallway for a moment before a voice began to sing.

“ _ Alouette, gentille alouette, alouette, je te plumerai _ ...”

Waylon interrupted the song by laughing, but the figure continued just as cheerfully, if not more so as it drew closer.

“ _ Je te plumerai la tête. Je te plumerai la tête. Et la tête ! Et la tête ! Alouette ! Alouette ! _ ”

The figure stepped out of the shadows, revealing the Scarecrow: Jonathan Crane. Waylon grinned wide and leaned on the cell door. Scarecrow’s lips curled into a bizarre grin and he used one hand to tilt the bolero on his head back and swayed to one side, settling on one wall while he looked over his mask. An occasional glance up at Croc indicated he was waiting for Croc to speak.

“ _ Cher _ ,” Croc hummed.

“Evenin’ Croc,” Scarecrow greeted. “Mary.”

“Crane,” Mary greeted. Scarecrow laughed.

“Didn’t tell me y’all were havin’ a carnival,” Waylon chuckled. “Didn’t want me ruinin’ the fun?”

“Aw, did I hurt your feelin’s, Croc?” Scarecrow teased. “I’m sorry, been cleanin’ out the belfry for Jack. I’m here now, is that not enough?”

“ _ Mais non, cher! _ ” Waylon answered, showing his teeth through the slits in the door. “You came to visit, didn’t you?”

“Reckon I did,” Scarecrow nodded.

“‘Sept you want somethin’,” Croc continued. “Somethin’ important. What would that be,  _ cher _ ?”

“Ain’t a soul on this island that can smell like you,” Scarecrow replied. “Lookin’ for Penny Young. Any ideas?”

“ _ Cher _ , you ain’t gotta come to me for that,” Croc laughed. “She’s in the mansion. Hidin’. Better get there before Joker does. It’s a fine day for huntin’.”

Scarecrow stepped back towards the hallway. His fingertips played along a scar on his throat while his eyes inspected the door of Croc’s cell. Croc grunted and nodded towards the hallway ahead. Scarecrow looked at Croc, paused, and nodded.

“Thanks Waylon,” he said before slipping back into the shadows.

“Anytime,  _ cher _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's him.
> 
> If you're here for a creepy thing, look up the translation to the song Jon is listening to.


	5. A Dangerous Proposition

Dead Man’s Point, a gruesome name with a gruesome reputation, but Joker wasn’t monitoring it like the rest of Arkham Island, and there was a Batcave built right underneath. It was the best place to get onto the island without Joker catching you right now, and that’s exactly what Cass needed.

Cass pulled her cowl loose and shook out her short hair, skipping steps on her way down. Audrey was curled up at the desk, a book propped on a reading stand and a mug perched on one knee. One hand combed through her blue hair and her dark brows were knit with focus.

“ _Hola,_ ” Audrey greeted without looking away from the computer. “ _Que pasa?_ ”

Cass shrugged and leaned on the desk. “....What is this?”

“Intel on Dr. Penelope Young,” Audrey replied, tapping her nail on the mug like this was a tedious job she didn’t want to do. Audrey rolled her neck out before continuing. “Barb said to get as much as I can before Bruce shows up. He’s headed over now that Gordon’s on his way off the island. I guess he asked her to get it, and she remembered I’m stationed here for the night.”

“Must be dull.” Cass stood up straight. “...Young is...28?”

“Roughly,” Audrey nodded, “but I’ll be damned, she rivals Crane for all the red on her ledger.”

Cass looked at Audrey with a half-smile, indicating she definitely wanted to hear this drama.

“Alright buckle up,” Audrey grinned wide, pulling up a window. “Look at this: Project Titan. It’s supposed to be a way to boost endurance so the weaker patients who need high-intensity treatment can withstand it.”

“But,” Cass scanned the document, “...It’s like Venom?”

“It basically  _ is _ Venom.” Audrey leaned back in her chair. “And it is not nice.”

“...That’s an understatement,” Cass noted, gesturing to the highlighted bullet-point that read “Mortality Rate: 100%”.

“I meant the photographed bone growths that just look painful,” Audrey shrugged, “but yes, that is an unsettling mortality rate.”

“Watch out Gotham,” Cass muttered. “....Arkham is curing your criminals...one corpse at a time.”

The cave entrance opened, and Audrey looked over at it. She waved as Batman walked in, cracking his neck. He looked tired, but his feet were moving faster than usual and his expression was serious.

“ _Que pasa?_ ” Audrey asked.

“More Spanish, fun,” Batman muttered, but cleared his throat. “What do you have for me? Hi Cass.”

Cass waved. Batman leaned on the back of Audrey’s chair and pulled free his mask to read better. He skimmed it over, then let out a deep, pensive sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose like he’d just spent two hours on patrol with Tim and Dick. Cass decided she’d wait until tomorrow to tell him they’d lost Mr. Walker.

“That explains Bane and Neil’s involvement being credited on Crane’s documents,” Batman noted. “The base is the Venom formula, meaning Crane would credit them as originating the current formula.”

“They would...not agree to…” Cass paused, searching for a proper descriptor. After a moment she gave up and gestured to the screen, “This...Would Crane? Why?”

“To make it safer,” Audrey guessed. “I looked over Crane’s involvement, the second he got involved the progress went significantly better, see?”

Cass looked at the document Audrey was indicating and nodded. “Then...who would...fund this?”

“Who would want an army of easily disposable muscle men?” Audrey asked, her lips curving into an impish grin.

“Me,” Cass answered with a matching grin. She and Audrey burst into a fit of laughter as Batman sighed and shook his head.

“Keep up the good work,” Batman said, pulling his mask back on. “Let me know what you find.”

“Mmhm.” Audrey nodded. “Say hi to Croc on your way through the sewers.”

Batman glared at Audrey, and Cass waved as he left.

“You...” Cass leaned over Audrey’s chair, “...are watching...something.

“Yep,” Audrey nodded. “I’m marathoning Lord of the Rings.”

“May I?” Cass pulled up a desk chair. Audrey smiled and nodded, edging out of the way so Cass could watch while she finished her work.

* * *

The comm buzzed to life abruptly.

“Uh, do you know where a psychiatrist would keep the formula for a powerful endurance drug?” Audrey asked, a little sheepish.

“You can’t find the formula?” Batman scowled. That was definitely odd.

“Nope,” Audrey replied. “There’s nothing, not in her files, not floating on one of Lon’s sites, I can’t even find anything on Neil’s drug registry, though he does have info on a new strain of Venom I think is Titan. Crane might have it, or Dr. Young.”

“Anything else?” Batman asked.

“Uh, Lon noticed our IP on his site and sent me like, two solid months of deleted emails between Young and a Jack White,” Audrey snickered. “ _ ¿Qué carajo? _ That’s not even trying. Penny what are you doing?”

“Joker?” Batman guessed.

“Oh, without a doubt,” Audrey confirmed. “Even has his typing style. He’s been funding Project Titan for the last two months, dumped loads of funding into it. I think he’s been in Cobblepot’s betting pools, looking at this funding. Then, a week ago, Young dropped his funding, sent what was left of his money back.”

“She probably got wise to the situation,” Batman paused, seeing the long hallway he needed to head down. He could pause for a moment. “Did Lonnie give you anything else?”

“Yeah,” Audrey nodded. “A couple threatening emails from Joker and this, an email from a Dr. Hugo Strange, requesting Dr. Young drop Project Titan, and another prior, requesting Young speak with Dr. Crane about any upcoming projects. I guess that’s where she got the idea of letting Crane in on this from.”

“Alright,” Batman nodded. “I’ll look into those when this is all over, Joker’s the priority right now.”

“Of course,” Audrey confirmed. “I’ll look into Dr. Strange for you, including possible connections to Crane. Barb can take over from here.”

The comm went silent and Batman started down the hallway. At the end of the hallway was a reinforced cell door and a cell. Inside the cell was what looked like a ten-year-old girl, sitting on the far bed, reading.

“Mary,” Batman greeted the girl. “Anything new?”

“Crane passed,” Mary granted. “Not much else. It’s been quiet.”

Something slammed on the cell door, and Mary looked up from her book in surprise.

“Waylon,” she sighed in a scolding tone.

“Get out,” Croc snarled through the bars at Batman. “This ain’t no place for a bat.”

“Crane passed,” Batman ignored Croc’s threats, they didn’t mean much to him right now.

Croc scoffed. “Sure did, but I ain’t tellin you where  _ cher  _ went. Would rather bite your face off.”

“ _ Oye! _ ”

Batman stepped back and Bane dropped from the ceiling, getting very close to Croc’s cell. Batman had intentionally kept a good foot away. The door might’ve been reinforced, but the hinge bolts were loose. One good rush at the door and it would be on the floor, probably with Batman under it. Batman had seen the results of Killer Croc knocking a door onto someone. It was, for lack of a better word, unpleasant.

“Aw, helpin a bat?” Croc laughed. “Ain’t your style Angel.”

“Forgetting your manners isn’t yours,” Bane countered.

“Bane where did you come from?” Mary asked, a little urgently.

“There’s a vent,” Bane replied, pointing up. Mary sighed loudly.

“That in no way answers my question, the vent up there is tiny.”

“I’ve got information for you,” Batman interrupted, addressing Bane. Bane turned to Batman, eyebrows raised.

“This Project Titan,” Batman continued, “it was funded by Joker.”

“Could’ve told you,” Croc muttered.

“Would certainly explain why he’s taken control of the facility,” Bane granted. “If she tried shutting down the project, I can’t imagine  _ payaso _ would be very happy.” Bane paused for a moment, “Better you find her before he does.”

“I thought you wanted revenge,” Batman countered.

“Oh, I do,” Bane smiled, “but isn’t it better to take my grievances to the very top in these situations?”

“Angel,  _ je t’aime _ ,” Croc laughed.

“ _ Merci, mon ami _ ,” Bane replied with a slight grin, then turned back to Batman. “I can help you get to the mansion. Joker’s upped the security now that I’m free.”

Batman nodded. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Bane slid a sewer grate free and climbed out onto the grounds. The fresh air, especially after wandering through the old sewers, was welcome. Stone had a habit of absorbing smells. Though it had been a long time since Old Gotham’s sewers let off anything close to the reek of New Gotham’s sewers, it lingered in the back of your throat. Reminded Bane way too much of the cells in Peña Duro.

Bane stretched his arms out and smiled. Being free of that damnable stretcher was welcome beyond anything Wayne could grasp. Bane looked back at Wayne, climbing out of the grate without much trouble. Bane smirked and leaned on the wall to wait for him to get his bearings. It wouldn’t take long; Wayne was made of tough stuff, his soft life notwithstanding.

“How is Mod?” Bane added. “I meant to ask.”

“I haven’t heard much from him in recent months,” Wayne replied. “He’s in Jump City right now.”

“ _ Ay dios mio _ ,” Bane clicked his teeth. “ _ ¿Por qué no me sorprende? _ ”

“This past month I’ve been focusing more on the mercenaries that resurfaced.”

“Who’s back?”

“Moth, Deadshot, Firefly.”

Bane snorted. “Take out Deadshot and it sounds like the boys are having a date night.”

“I’d rather they didn’t.”

“ _ Eres aburrido _ .”

Wayne smiled at that. He didn’t smile a lot. It was a shame really; he looked quite nice when he smiled.

Bane stepped off the wall and turned to the mansion. Normally, it would be a straight shot across, but eight of Joker’s Thugs stood in front of the doors. Two were trying to get in, while the other six waited out front. These were Blackgate types, not Arkham’s usual suspects. Most were mentally healthy men, for the most part. Bane had dealt with enough of these types to last a lifetime and yet each time he looked at them he could feel a snarl on his lips. It was like seventeen years of abuse was standing in front of him, begging for a kick in the teeth.

Bane rolled his shoulders and stepped out in front of the men, all of whom tensed at the sight of him. One edged his hand over to a radio at his side, looking to the others to see what the plan was. Bane was tall and skinny, but he definitely had a certainty to him. Neil said he walked with authority, that people moved because they didn’t want to be moved.

“ _ Hola _ !” Bane waved and smiled. “ _ Que pasa? _ Is there something going on in there?”

“It’s not your business,” the nearest man replied. “We’re busy here.”

“ _ Entiendo _ ,” Bane nodded. “Busy with what?”

“Keep your nose out of it,” the man snapped.

Bane forced a smile and let out a slow sigh, one that made the other five guards back up slowly. The one with the radio pulled it from the receiver. The front man was standing tall and trying to look scary. He was taller than Bane and stocky. Bane remembered this one. He was a little older than Bane, twenty-five, had a kid, but wasn’t married, the mother had dropped the kid off and left a year back. He’d been a weightlifter for a few years, but it hadn’t gone anywhere.

“ _ Amigo _ ,” Bane placed a hand on the man’s chest. “You’re not threatening me, are you?”

“You don’t wanna see me threatening you,” the man warned.

Bane grabbed the man’s shirt and slammed his head into the man’s face. The man hit the ground, hand over his face. Bane looked up at the other five guards, all staring in shock. Bane nudged the prone man aside and walked up to the one with the radio. He held out his hand, and the man quickly put the radio in it. Bane crushed it with one hand and looked at the five men surrounding him. The two at the doors had stopped as well, staring at Bane in disbelief.

“ _ Vete _ ,” Bane gestured away with his head. The men didn’t need to be told twice. They gathered up their fallen friend and bolted. Once they were gone, Bane turned to where Wayne was watching.

“Thanks,” Wayne said, his voice flat.

“I’m glad you think I’m worthwhile.” Bane smiled and tossed the crushed radio aside. “The door’s locked.”

“And there’s a vent above the door,” Wayne replied. Bane looked at the vent, which looked barely big enough to fit Wayne, let alone for him to travel through comfortably.

“Right,” Bane nodded. “Well,  _ buena suerte _ . Oh, and I meant to give you this.” Bane pulled a remote from his pocket and held it out, “It’s for an inhibitor collar. I figure it belongs to someone.”

“Are you planning on telling me who?” Wayne asked. Bane responded with a harsh laugh.

“No.”

* * *

Jonathan knew Joker was running around the building, but he didn’t actually expect to run into him before the party. He’d cleaned up real nice too, a new satin suit with a waistcoat to match. Tonight was an important night.

Of course he’d look a lot cleaner if he wasn’t taking swigs out of a bottle of Jameson and swaying like everything was a tightrope.

“The accent out too?” Jonathan guessed.

“Yeah,” Joker nodded, stumbling a little. “Feckin’ Young lass is a tool.”

“I see,” Jonathan nodded. “She escaped. Fine thing too, I like her.”

Joker gave Jonathan a look.

“I ain’t the one drinkin’ whiskey in a weddin’ suit,” Jonathan replied, “and  _ Catholic _ whiskey too, what would Gran Napier say?”

“She’d tell your redneck arse to mind your own feckin’ business,” Joker snarled.

There was a clattering in a nearby room, and both men turned to it. Joker straightened up and took another swig from the bottle.

“He’s here,” Joker noted. “Bats.”

Jonathan clicked his teeth and let out a soft hiss.

“I’ve a job for you.” Joker looked to Jonathan. “Do it, an’ do it well, and I’ll let you keep your little...cod of a doctor. All I need you to do, real simple like, is distract  _ him _ .” Joker jerked his head towards the front of the building. “I’ve a formula to steal. You never did get her to trust you enough to steal it for me.”

Jonathan glared at Joker, who’s face split into a toothy grin.

“Not a hair on her head,” Jonathan said firmly. “Y’hear?”

“Not a hair,” Joker repeated, making the sign of the cross.

Jonathan leaned back rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Right. You get yourself sobered up, and I’ll deal with your bat problem, again.”

“That’s my favorite straw man!” Joker skipped out of the room, He stopped once to click his heels together and spin around to beam proudly at Jonathan for being able to do it while drunk as a lord. When Jonathan didn’t respond like he wanted, he threw the bottle of Jameson at him, or pretended to, as it shattered on the ground beside Jonathan.

Jonathan kept the same blank expression on. He’d learned a long time ago that Joker’s short tantrums resolved best when he didn’t have fear or anger to feed off of.

Joker swung out of the room and Jonathan turned to find a good place to stall Batman, one that would certainly give Joker some additional stress.

* * *

Batman didn’t find Dr. Young. He did, once more, find Aaron Cash, and of course a few more armed inmates, but Batman was so used to armed inmates he had a system for taking care of them at this point. The inmates weren’t the issue, Cash’s worried expression was.

“Before you run off to find Dr. Young, you wanna see this,” he said before Batman could ask where Young went.

Batman opened his mouth, about to argue that he didn’t have the time to bother with anything else but closed it when Cash turned a corner. No argument, Cash was dead serious about this. Batman followed, but when he did, his heart sank.

Five guards, three inmates, all armed, all dead. The guards had been shot, but their killing blows were quick throat slits, methodical mercy-kills. It was the inmates that would’ve made anyone sick. To say they were tortured would be a gross understatement. They were all systematically dissected, carved so their deaths were painful, slow, and inevitable. This was no amateur job, the killer was trained, and trained well.

Batman didn’t need to ask who had done this. It was obvious. Batman had hopes, perhaps against all hope, that Zsasz and his guards had made it to his cell. If he had to guess, they’d assumed the mansion was safe to cut through, and had been sorely mistaken.

Another problem presented itself. Jonathan was no threat to Dr. Young, he never hurt doctors he liked. Joker and Harley wouldn’t threaten Dr. Young directly, it wasn’t their style, and of course it wasn’t hard to evade their thugs if you were smart. Bane was outside and his vendetta had been successfully redirected, so he was no threat. Zsasz, he was different. Viktor Zsasz, running on pure adrenaline, was a threat to everyone, himself included. He was just killing instincts, instincts drilled into him from childhood.

Dr. Young was absolutely, without question, in danger.

“Where’s Dr. Young?” Batman turned to Cash, who was still looking at the five guards lying dead in front of him.

“I sent her to her office,” he replied, his voice a little numb. “It should be safe from Joker’s thugs, though.”

Batman nodded. “But not from Zsasz. Keep an eye out for him but remember: don’t engage.”

“I know how Zsasz works,” Cash snapped, his numbness broken. “I know better than to try and talk to him when he’s scared. It’s not my job.”

There was a short pause where Batman started to leave. As he reached the door, Cash added to his final sentence, his voice harsh and condemning.

“It’s not your job, either.”

Batman continued through the door, making his way to Dr. Young’s office. Even if it wasn’t his job to fix all of this, he was going to try.

At the moment, he had no choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait, but here it is! Chapter 5!
> 
> There will be an update to it when my usual editor looks through, but I don't want to rush her so I'm posting chapter 5 now and will update soon.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading!


	6. Bad Memories

The office was empty when Batman reached it. Young’s safe hung open and her desk was in disarray. A cursory look told him several people had been in there, though the times differed. Young had been there, but she’d left, likely with her formula notes. After her...the whiskey smell in the room made it obvious, Joker. There was a quality to Irish whiskey you only picked up if you paid attention. And after that, someone had wandered in, tracking blood, but Joker hadn’t left before the third person entered, but the lack of a corpse gave away that they’d both left.

Batman wouldn’t put it past Zsasz to be tracking blood everywhere, and Joker could probably convince a scared Zsasz to do anything he wanted. Batman needed to find Young, now.

Batman started out of the office and looked to both sides of the hallway. It wasn’t hard to guess what Joker’s first order of business was: find Young. Zsasz tracking blood everywhere made it easier to figure out where they went. Joker probably knew this, but was letting Batman follow him, already two steps ahead of Young’s panicked plans.

There was trouble ahead.

* * *

It had been a long day for Basil, but it wasn’t over, and that was the trouble.

Basil slipped into the library, keeping himself well and truly on the ground so Joker couldn’t see him. Zsasz noticed him, his blue eyes darting from Basil back to Joker’s attempts to tear a bookshelf to shreds in frustration. He opened his mouth, but wisely shut it and pulled his jacket close around his body like a shield.

“That fecking bitch!” Joker kicked the bookshelf and looked at the two other shelves he’d searched before giving up. “Forget the shelves, feck ‘em.” Joker grabbed Zsasz, a motion that would’ve ended with a knife in the face for anyone else. “That cod’s somewhere around here, right?”

“Are you asking me to scare her?” Zsasz asked.

“I am.” Joker nodded. “Can’t be hard, can it?”

Zsasz pulled a face, indicating he doubted Joker’s confidence. “Doctors here are a lot tougher than they look.”

“You’ve a point.” Joker patted Zsasz’s cheek. “You’ve definitely a point. Worth a shot though, isn’t it?”

Basil really wanted to punch that sorry clown in the face now. Zsasz was scared of Joker, enough that he wouldn’t lay a hand on the clown. Joker loved that kind of fear out of someone who could kill more effectively than he could. He watched Joker hurry off and put up the security gate.

“What about guards?” Zsasz spoke up, drawing Basil closer to the gate.

“Leave ‘em,” Joker replied from further down the steps. “They’ll be a fine game for the bat they will.”

“I don’t like you,” Zsasz remarked.

“I wager I can live with that. Now come on, we’ve no time at all, at all.”

Basil slipped under the security gate as Zsasz rounded the corner and waited for their footsteps to fade before reforming and heading down to see what guards Zsasz was talking about. There were two guards down there, out cold, strapped to what looked like a wrapped gift. Basil at on the floor in front of it and tried to remember the wrapping rules for Joker’s gifts. A Joker gift box had distinct wrapping depending on what was in it. This one was green and white striped with a big purple ribbon tied into a comically big bow.

The library door opened with a loud creak. Basil turned up and caught a glimpse of Batman walking through the library.

“Over here!” Basil shouted. Batman didn’t respond, still looking around. He noticed Basil after a moment and started towards him.

“How did you get over there?” Batman asked.

“Slipped under the security gate.” Basil pointed to the small gap between the bottom of the gate and the floor, too small for any human, but just right for a sentient mud puddle with self-esteem issues. “There are some guards back here strapped to a gift box. I can’t remember what the rules for the gift-wrap are.”

“I never memorized his rules,” Batman admitted. “It’s better to get the guards out in case it has a nail bomb inside.”

“Right,” Basil muttered, then headed over to the security panel. He stared at it for a few seconds, wondering if he could shut it down without a card and not hurt himself in the process. Deciding he couldn’t, Basil placed a hand on the panel and relaxed it. The fingers on his hand melted into a light brown goop and slithered into the tiny gaps between the panel and the lid. The machine began to spark and crackle, and Basil’s arm started to tingle a little.

“Basil it’s open,” Batman said. “Take your hand out of the panel.”

Basil looked over at Batman and lifted his hand away from the panel. The remaining clay stuck in the machine continued to make it spark as Basil meticulously rebuilt his fingers, focused more on that than anything Batman was doing.

“Thank you, Basil,” Batman said, drawing Basil’s attention. He nodded to the gift box. “This one’s harmless, I scanned it.”

Basil nodded. “What now?”

“I need to destroy the formula,” Batman answered, heading back to the library.

“She put it in one of the shelves.” Basil trailed after Batman. “Joker was looking for it.”

“I know. Did you see which one?”

“No,” Basil shook his head, “but Jonny has a hiding place in the library. I wouldn’t put it past him to tell Young where it is, or for her to trust him to keep it safe from Joker.”

“Where is it?”

Basil heaved a deep sigh and let his legs relax enough he could elongate them and rise up to the top shelf on the left side. He wiggled free a stack of five books on the Stanford Prison Experiment and placed them in front of the neighboring books. He then pulled free a lockbox roughly the size of a larger book and opened it. Inside was a stack of papers, a few empty pill bottles labelled for a Jonathan Crane, and a cheap plastic lighter. Basil snatched up the lighter and stashed it in his hand, then retrieved the papers and returned the lockbox. He returned to the ground and handed Batman the papers.

As Batman looked over the papers, Basil pushed the lighter up into his hand and he lit one corner of the paper bundle.

“Joker gave up looking for it,” Basil explained. “We don’t need this formula. We need to find Dr. Young.”

“ _ I _ need to find her,” Batman corrected. “You’re not getting hurt on my account.”

“I can take care of myself,” Basil protested.

“Regardless,” Batman continued, gripping Basil’s shoulders, “you’re still nineteen.”

“Robin’s thirteen and Batgirl is fifteen.”

“You are neither of them, nor are they he—”

Batman stopped, turning his attention to the air. Basil could hear it too, a faint hissing, like a gas leak. Basil took a deep breath, trying to find a smell. There was a strange reek in the air, one Basil couldn’t place, but it was definitely a chemical kind of odor.

“Fear toxin,” Batman whispered, looking around. “Crane’s back.”

“I’ll find him.” Basil shifted out of Batman’s grasp and hurried to the stairs. “It’s not a problem I’ll just—”

There was a mechanical hum as Basil reached the first landing, and Basil turned to find the security gate back up. Batman’s hacking cough was audible from where Basil was standing, but Basil couldn’t see the vigilante.

“Go!” Batman shouted, making Basil start. Basil took a step back, then hurried down the steps. If there was fear toxin entering the library, Scarecrow was nearby, and Basil would find him.

* * *

Batman stumbled back into a chair, trying to breathe through what felt like thick smoke coating his lungs. He looked up at the bookshelves as they twisted and morphed in front of him, breaking apart and crumbling to dust around him as a deep, gravelly voice laughed.

When the dust settled, the library had changed. The towering black shelves became curling masterpieces of white wood and gold gilding. The mortar pieces were marked on corners with gilded fleur-de-lis motifs and the scratched oak tables and chairs were replaced by well-loved mahogany tables and chairs with green silk seats.

Batman—Bruce Wayne—recognized his own library all too well. It was a familiar warm place, but Bruce did not feel warm now. He knew this place, but he didn’t trust it. Bruce ran his hands through his hair, aware that his mask, his body armor, was suddenly gone, replaced with a crumpled dark gray suit, the black dress shirt underneath left with the top two buttons undone.

Bruce circled the room, trying to find what was different. When he turned to the door, he sighted a figure. A man, tall and thin as a rail, legs crossed neatly, the top one bouncing ever-so slightly. The man’s face was covered by a burlap mask, and a floppy-brimmed hat rested on his head.

Bruce blinked, and the man was gone.

After a long moment of staring at the empty space where the man was sitting, Bruce backed out of the library, and into a long hallway. The tall bay windows were blacked out, even with the heavy red curtains drawn back, and the gold-trimmed hall rug was covered with a thick layer of dust. Each step made the hall creak, the ceiling retreated higher, and windows and doors extended into skyscrapers that glowered down at Bruce.

The creaking floorboards, muffled by an old rug, became the brick-laid streets of Crime Alley, and Bruce glimpsed himself in a passing window, choked with grime. A wide-eyed ten-year-old stared back. Bruce continued through the winding pathways, feeling wind-gusts too strong to be imagined.

One pair of feet became three, and Bruce gripped tightly to his mother’s hand, the gold band of her bracelet rubbing against his index finger.

“We’re lost Tom,” Martha Wayne insisted, eyeing the dark corners of the alley suspiciously. “We should’ve waited in front of the theater.” Martha looked down at Bruce with a wry grin. “I swear, your father has no sense of direction.”

“Well of course I don’t.” Thomas Wayne smiled at his wife. “We agreed that you’d have the directional sense and I’d take the ability to cook.”

“Charming,” Martha mocked, then paused, as if seeing something. She craned her neck to see past Thomas, and Thomas followed her line of sight to a man stumbling towards them. Martha ushered Bruce behind her back and watched the man with a cautious look. A little more optimistic, Thomas edged forwards, his hand already pulling his wallet free.

It was halfway out of his pocket when a bang fired off, and Thomas Wayne buckled. Bruce screamed, and Martha started.

“Run,” she ordered Bruce, pushing him back down the alley. She turned fully to repeat her instructions, louder this time. “RUN!”

Bruce froze at first, but a second loud bang and Martha’s stunned stumble in response was enough to convince him. He scrambled only a few paces when he tripped, fell, and backed into a corner to hide. The stumbling shadow paused near his little hiding place but turned away when he heard a shrill scream from Martha. The alleyway went quiet, and Bruce crept from his hiding place after he was sure the man was gone.

He felt numb as he stumbled over to his mother, her breathing heavy and labored as blood crept across her silk gown.

“Bruce,” she choked out. Bruce sank down to his knees in front of her and she gently cupped his cheek in her hand.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Bruce, I love you. I love you.”

Bruce stared numbly at his mother as she slowly closed her eyes. One last time, before they closed completely, she spoke.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing and neither should you.


End file.
